Matthew Prior

A Rechabite poor Will must live, And drink of Adam's ale.

Who breathes must suffer, and who thinks must mourn; And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born.

For hope is but the dream of those that wake.

Abra was ready ere I called her name; And though I called another, Abra came.

That air and harmony of shape express, Fine by degrees, and beautifully less.

Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

All jargon of the schools.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lies what once was Matthew Prior; The son of Adam and of Eve: Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?

Venus, take my votive glass; Since I am not what I was, What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see.

To John I owed great obligation; But John, unhappily, thought fit To publish it to all the nation: Sure John and I are more than quit.

Till their own dreams at length decive 'em, And oft repeating, they believe 'em.

His noble negligences teach What others' toils despair to reach.

Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart, And often took leave, but was loth to depart.

Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician.

He ranged his tropes, and preached up patience; Backed his opinion with quotations.

And thought the nation ne'er would thrive Till all the whores were burnt alive.

Be to her virtues very kind; Be to her faults a little blind; Let all her ways be unconfined; And clap your padlock — on her mind!

Soft peace she brings; wherever she arrives She builds our quiet as she forms our lives; Lays the rough paths of peevish Nature even, And opens in each heart a little heaven.

Forbear to mention what thou canst not praise.

The end must justify the means.

That if weak women went astray, Their stars were more in fault than they.

From ignorance our comfort flows. The only wretched are the wise.

Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim At objects in an airy height; The little pleasure of the game Is from afar to view the flight.