The Poetical Works of Matthew Prior

Which thy own hand had whilom planted,
Both pleas'd with all we thought we wanted:
Yet then, ev'n then, one crofs reflection
Would spoil thy grove, and my collection:
Thy fon, and his, ere that may die
And Time fome uncouth heir fupply,
Who fhall for nothing else be known
But fpoiling all that thou haft done.
Who fet the twigs, fhall he remember
That is in hafte to fell the timber?
And what shall of thy woods remain,
Except the box that threw the main ?
Nay, may not Time and Death remove
The near relations whom I love?

And

my coz Tom, or his coz Mary,
(Who hold the plough, or fkim the dairy)
My favourite books and pictures fell
To Smart, or Doiley, by the ell?
Kindly throw in a little figure,
And fet the price upon the bigger?

Those who could never read the grammar,
When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books best, as richest bound;
My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned justice weigh'd;
To turn the balance, Otho's head
May be thrown in; and for the metal,
The coin may mend a tinker's kettle-

Tir'd with these thoughts-Lefs tir'd than I,
Quoth Dick, with your philofophy-
That people live and die, I knew
An hour ago, as well as you.
And, if Fate fpins us longer years,
Or is in hafte to take the fhears,
I know we muft both fortunes try,
And bear our evils wet or dry.

Yet, let the Goddess smile or frown,
Bread we shall eat, or white or brown ;

And in a cottage, or a court,

Drink fine CHAMPAIGNE or muddled PORT.
What need of books thefe truths to tell,
Which folks perceive who cannot spell?
And muft we fpectacles apply,

To view what hurts our naked eye?

Sir, if it be your wisdom's aim To make me merrier than I am;

I'll be all night at your devotion

Come on, friend; broach the pleasing notion:
But, if you would deprefs my thought,

Your SYSTEM is not worth a groat-
For Plato's fancies what care I?
I hope you would not have me die,
Like fimple Cato, in the play,
For any thing that he can say?
Ev'n let him of ideas speak

To heathens in his native Greek,

If to be fad is to be wife;

I do moft heartily despise
Whatever Socrates has faid,

Or Tully writ, or Wanley * read.
Dear Drift +, to fet our matters right,
Remove these papers from my fight;
Burn Mat' Def-cart', and Ariftotle :
Here! Jonathan, your master's bottle,

Humphrey Wanley, librarian to the Earl of Oxford.
Mr. Prior's Secretary and Executor.

CON

CONTENTS

TO THE

FIRST

VOLUM E.

ON Exodus III. 14. I am that I am, an Ode.

Written in 1688, as an exercise at St. John's

College, Cambridge.

Page 1

To the Countefs of Exeter playing on the lute

Picture of Seneca dying in a bath, by Jordain,