The Remedy Worse Than The Disease
I sent for Ratcliffe, was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over,
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.
But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Wives By The Dozen
O Death how thou spoil'st the best project of life,
Said Gabriel, who still as he bury'd one wife,
For the sake of her family married her cousin;
And thus in an honest collateral line
He still married on till his number was nine,
Full sorry to die till he made up his dozen.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To A Poet Of Quality. Praising The Lady Hinchinbroke
Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense
She looks henceforth upon as dowdies.
Yet she to one must still submit,
To dear Mamma must pay her duty;
She wonders, praising Wilmot's wit,
Thou shouldst forget his daughter's beauty.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Fatal Love
Poor Hal caught his death standing under a spout
Expecting till midnight when Nan would come out;
But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,
And cursed was the weather that quench'd the man's flame.
Whoe'er thou art that reads these moral lines,
Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To Cloe
Whilst I am scorch'd with hot desire,
In vain cold Friendship you return,
Your drops of pity on my fire,
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.
Ah! would you have the flame suppress'd,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast,
The rest in mine shall ever last.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Bibo And Charon
When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champagne as an egg's full of meat,
He waked in the boat, and to Charon he said,
He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead.
Trim the boat and sit quiet, stern Charon replied,
You may have forgot - you were drunk when you died.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Songs Set To Music: 10. Set By Mr. Smith
Why, Harry, what ails you? why look you so sad?
To think and ne'er drink will make you stark mad.
'Tis the mistress, the friend, and the bottle, old boy,
Which create all the pleasure poor mortals enjoy;
But wine of the three's the most cordial brother,
For one it relieves, and it strengthens the other.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Dying Adrian To His Soul
Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,
To take thy flight thou know'st not whither?
Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly,
Lies all neglected, all forgot:
And pensive, wavering, melancholy,
Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Partial Fame
The sturdy man, if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns:
The subtle woman, if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.
Though he for all his boast is forced to yield,
Though she can always keep the field,
He vaunts his conquests, she conceals her shame:
How partial is the voice of Fame!
poem by Matthew Prior
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Epigram - Frank Carves Very Ill
Frank carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats;
He eats more than six, and drinks more than he eats.
Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes,
And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes:
Yet sighing, he says we must certainly break,
And my cruel unkindness compels him to speak,
For of late I invite him - but four times a week.
poem by Matthew Prior
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