A FABLE FROM PHÆDRUS.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDLEY, 1710.

HE 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 Phædrus heard him say:
"What noble part canst thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain ?"

ON MY BIRTHDAY, JULY 21.

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.

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A periodical paper by Oldmixon, Maynwaring, and others, set up in opposition to the Examiner.

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.

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EPITAPH. EXTEMPORE.

OBLES and heralds, by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior; The son of Adam and of Eve,

Can Bourbon or Nassau go higher?

FOR MY OWN MONUMENT.

OS doctors give physic by way of prevention,

Mat, alive and in health, of his
tombstone took care;

For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.

* Mrs. Anne Durham.

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.

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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 he!

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

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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, 30 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.

CUPID IN AMBUSH.

Toft to many has successful been,
Upon his arm to let his mistress lean;
Or with her airy fan to cool her heat,
Or gently squeeze her knees, or press
her feet.

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All public sports, to favour young desire,
With opportunities like this conspire.
E'en where his skill the gladiator shows,
With human blood where the arena flows;
There oftentimes love's quiver-bearing boy
Prepares his bow and arrows to destroy:
While the spectator gazes on the fight,
And sees them wound each other with delight;
While he his pretty mistress entertains,
And wagers with her who the conquest gains;
Slily the god takes aim, and hits his heart,
And in the wounds he sees he bears his part.

THE TURTLE AND SPARROW.

AN ELEGIAC TALE, OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF

B

PRINCE GEORGE, 1708.

EHIND an unfrequented glade,

Where yew and myrtle mix their shade,
A widow turtle pensive sat,

And wept her murder'd lover's fate.
The sparrow chanc'd that way to walk
(A bird that loves to chirp and talk);
Be sure he did the turtle greet;
She answer'd him as she thought meet.
Sparrows and turtles, by the bye,
Can think as well as you or I:

But how they did their thoughts express,
The margin shows by T. and S.

7. My hopes are lost, my joys are fled;
Alas! I weep Columbo dead:
Come, all ye winged lovers, come,
Drop pinks and daisies on his tomb:
Sing, Philomel, his funeral verse;
Ye pious redbreasts, deck his hearse:
Fair swans, extend your dying throats,
Columbo's death requires your notes:
"For him, my friends, for him I moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone."

Stretch'd on the bier Columbo lies;
Pale are his cheeks, and clos'd his eyes;
Those cheeks, where beauty smiling lay;

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