Matthew Prior Poems

Come then, my soul: I call thee by that name,
Thou busy thing, from whence I know I am;
For, knowing that I am, I know thou art,
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Whither would my passion run?
Shall I fly her, or pursue her?
Losing her I am undone,
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Thou, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand.
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Since by ill fate I'm forced away,
And snatch'd so soon from those dear arms,
Against my will I must obey,
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Accept, my Love, as true a heart
As ever lover gave;
'Tis free (it vows) from my art,
And proud to be your slave.
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Come, weep no more, for 'tis in vain;
Torment not thus your pretty heart;
Think, Flavia, we may meet again,
As well as that we now must part.
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Hans Carvel, impotent and old,
Married a lass of London mould.
Handsome? Enough; extremely gay;
Loved music, company, and play:
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LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
   That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
   To show their passions by their letters.
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When poets wrote and painters drew
As Nature pointed out the view,
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece
To spoil the well-proportion'd piece;
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Tway Mice, full Blythe and Amicable,
Batten beside Erle Robert's Table.
Lies there ne Trap their Necks to catch,
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