Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 75

Thomas Otway. 1652-1685

419. The Enchantment

I DID but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will, And now I have no power.

To sigh and wish is all my ease; Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice, Yet cannot warm your heart.

O would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 'Twould learn of yours the winning art, And quickly steal the rest.

John Oldham. 1653-1683

420. A Quiet Soul

THY soul within such silent pomp did keep, As if humanity were lull'd asleep; So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath, Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise, Or the soft journey which a planet goes: Life seem'd all calm as its last breath.

A still tranquillity so hush'd thy breast, As if some Halcyon were its guest, And there had built her nest; It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.

John Cutts, Lord Cutts. 1661-1707

421. Song

ONLY tell her that I love: Leave the rest to her and Fate: Some kind planet from above May perhaps her pity move: Lovers on their stars must wait.-- Only tell her that I love!

Why, O why should I despair!

Mercy 's pictured in her eye: If she once vouchsafe to hear, Welcome Hope and farewell Fear!

She 's too good to let me die.-- Why, O why should I despair?

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

422. The Question to Lisetta

WHAT nymph should I admire or trust, But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?

What nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me?

To whom should I compose the lay, But her who listens when I play?

To whom in song repeat my cares, But her who in my sorrow shares?

For whom should I the garland make, But her who joys the gift to take, And boasts she wears it for my sake?

In love am I not fully blest?

Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.

LISETTA'S REPLY

Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, Deserves to be your only care; But, when you and she to-day Far into the wood did stray, And I happen'd to pa.s.s by, Which way did you cast your eye?

But, when your cares to her you sing, You dare not tell her whence they spring: Does it not more afflict your heart, That in those cares she bears a part?

When you the flowers for Chloe twine, Why do you to her garland join The meanest bud that falls from mine?

Simplest of swains! the world may see Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

423. To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their pa.s.sions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fire, and look The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my pa.s.sion, And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my pa.s.sion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pa.s.s for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

424. Song

THE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Chloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers mix my sighs: And while I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

425. On My Birthday, July 21

I, MY dear, was born to-day-- So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne'er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say-- 'I, my dear, was born to-day.'

I, my dear, was born to-day: Shall I salute the rising ray, Well-spring of all my joy and woe?

Clotilda, thou alone dost know.

Shall the wreath surround my hair?

Or shall the music please my ear?

Shall I my comrades' mirth receive, And bless my birth, and wish to live?

Then let me see great Venus chase Imperious anger from thy face; Then let me hear thee smiling say-- 'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'

Matthew Prior. 1664-1721

426. The Lady who offers her Looking-Gla.s.s to Venus

VENUS, take my votive gla.s.s: Since I am not what I was, What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see.