ON MY

BIRTH - DAY, JULY 21.:

1.
I MY dear, was born to-day,
19 So all my jolly comrades fay;
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;
Better I had ne'er been born :
I wish to die ev’n whilft I say,
I, my dear, was born to-day.

II.
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 fay,
Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.

N

OBLES and heralds, by your leave,

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

Can Bourbon or Naffau claim higher?

„FOR MY OWN TOM B-STONE.

To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given

'To live : alas ! one moment sets us even. Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven !

FOR MY OWN MONUMENT.

I.
AS 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.

II. Then

II.
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.

III.
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 a life party-colour’d, half pleasure, half care.

IV.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a Nave,
• 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 try'd, 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

duft.

VI.
This verse little polish'd, though mighty fincere,

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.

VII. Fierce

VII.
Fierce robbers there are that infeft 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.

VIII.
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'ft him a smile, or a tear,

He cares not yet pr’ythee be kind to his fame.

GUALTERUS DANISTONUS AD AMICOS.

UM studeo fungi fallentis munere vitæ,

Adfectoque viam fedibus Elysiis,
Aretoa florens sophiâ, Samisque superbus

Discipulis, animas morte carere cano.
Has ego corporibus profugas ad fidera mitto;

Sideraque ingressis otia blanda dico;
Qualia conveniunt Divis, queis fata volebant

Vitäi faciles molliter ire vias :
Vinaque Cælicolis media inter gaudia libo;

Et me quid majus fufpicor effe viro.
Sed fuerint nulli forsan, quos fpondeo, cæli ;

Nullaque fint Ditis numina, nulla Jovis :
Fabula sit terris agitur quæ vita relictis ;
Quique superftes, Homo ; qui nihil, esto Deus.

Attamen

Attamen esse hilares, & inanes mittere curas

Proderit, ac vitæ commoditate frui,
Et festos agitâsse dies, ævique fugacis

Tempora perpetuis detinuiffe jocis.
His me parentem præceptis occupet Orcus,

Et Mors; seu Divum, seu nihil, esse velit :
Nam fophia ars illa eft, quæ fallere suaviter horas

Admonet, atque Orci non timuisse minas.

I'M IT A T E D.

STUDIOUS the busy moments to deceive,
That fleet between the cradle and the grave,
I credit what the Grecian dictates say,
And Samian sounds o’er Scotia's hills convey.
When mortal man resigns his tranfient breath,
The body only I give o'er to death;
The parts dissolv’d and broken frame I mourn:
What came from earth I fee to earth return.
The immaterial part, th' æthereal soul,
Nor can change vanquish, nor can death control.
Glad I release it from its partner's cares,
And bid good angels waft it to the stars.
Then in the flowing bowl I drown those fighs,
Which, spite of wisdom, from our weakness rife.
The draught to the dead's memory I commend,
And offer to thee now, immortal friend.
But if, oppos’d to what my thoughts approve,
Nor Pluto's rage there be, nor power of Jove;

On