Volume Ii Part 69 (1/2)

TO CHLOE JEALOUS

Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face!

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled: Prithee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says), Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?

Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy: More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my pa.s.sion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

The G.o.d of us verse-men (you know, Child) the sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run; At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.

So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: No matter what beauties I saw in my way: They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war; And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree: For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

JACK AND JOAN

Jack and Joan they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still; Do their week-days' work, and pray Devoutly on the holy day: Skip and trip it on the green, And help to choose the Summer Queen; Lash out, at a country feast, Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale; Climb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft.

Tib is all the father's joy, And little Tom the mother's boy.

All their pleasure is content; And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows, And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreaths and tuttyes make, And trim with plums a bridal cake.

Jack knows what brings gain or loss; And his long flail can stoutly toss: Makes the hedge which others break; And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights, That study only strange delights; Though you scorn the home-spun gray, And revel in your rich array: Though your tongues dissemble deep, And can your heads from danger keep; Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly swain.

Thomas Campion [?--1619]

PHILLIS AND CORYDON

Phillis kept sheep along the western plains, And Corydon did feed his flocks hard by: This shepherd was the flower of all the swains That traced the downs of fruitful Thessaly; And Phillis, that did far her flocks surpa.s.s In silver hue, was thought a bonny la.s.s.

A bonny la.s.s, quaint in her country 'tire, Was lovely Phillis,--Corydon swore so; Her locks, her looks, did set the swain on fire, He left his lambs, and he began to woo; He looked, he sighed, he courted with a kiss, No better could the silly swad than this.

He little knew to paint a tale of love, Shepherds can fancy, but they cannot say: Phillis 'gan smile, and wily thought to prove What uncouth grief poor Corydon did pay; She asked him how his flocks or he did fare, Yet pensive thus his sighs did tell his care.

The shepherd blushed when Phillis questioned so, And swore by Pan it was not for his flocks: ”'Tis love, fair Phillis, breedeth all this woe, My thoughts are trapped within thy lovely locks; Thine eye hath pierced, thy face hath set on fire; Fair Phillis kindleth Corydon's desire.”