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For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiplied.
When Heaven had you and gracious Anna" made,
What more exalted beauty could it add:
Having no nobler images in store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had fram’d before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty:
With all that world of charms, which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love :
His every grace, his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours:
If every Cecil's face had every charm,
That thought can fancy, or that Heaven can form ;
Their beauties all become your beauty's due,
They are all fair, because they're all like you.
If every Ca'ndish great and charming look:
From you that air, from you the charms they took.
In their each limb your image is exprest;
But on their brow firm courage stands confest;
There, their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece
Thus still your beauty, in your sons we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew ;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.
So when the parent sun, with genial beams,
Has animated many goodly gems,
He sees himself improv'd, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun.
So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth, and people Heaven ;
Her glory grew diffus'd, and fuller known,
She saw the deity in every son :
And to what God soe'er men altars rais'd,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother prais’d.
In short-liv'd charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys :
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renew’d, and stamp'd in all your race.
Ah Wiessen, had thy art been so refin'd,
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind:
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,
To men unborn and ages yet to live :
'Twould still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate, could do ;
Till thine confus'd with Nature's pieces lie,
And Cavendish's name and Cecil's honour die.
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDLEY,” 1710.
THE fox an actor's vizard found,
And peer'd, and felt, and turn’d it round:
Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phaedrus heard him say:
“What noble part canst thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain **
ON MY BIRTIII)AY, JULY 21.
I, MY dear, was born to-day,
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth :
Little, alas ! my comrades know,
That I was born to pain and woe:
To thy denial, to thy scorn;
Better I had ne'er been born :
I wish to die e'en whilst I say,
I, my dear, was born to-day.
I, my dear, was born to-day,
Shall I salute the rising ray ?
Well-spring of all my joy and woe,
Clotilda,” thou alone dost know :
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live :
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say,
Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.
NoRLEs 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?
As doctors give physic by way of prevention,
Mat, alive, and in health, of his tombstone took
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill’d by his heir.
Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid,
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
| Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are;
High hopes he conceiv'd, and he smother'd great - fears, In life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make interest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And, alone with his friends, lord, how merry was hel
Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl’d in the round, as the wheel turn’d about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse little polish'd, though mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd, or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To fate we must yield, and the thing is the same
And if passing, thou giv'st him a smile, or a tear,
He cares not—yet prithee be kind to his fame.