Matthew Prior Poems

Still, Dorinda, I adore;
Think I mean not to deceive you,
For I loved you much before,
And, alas! now love you more
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Touch the lyre, touch every string;
Touch it, Orpheus; I will sing
A song which shall immortal be,
Since she I sing's a deity;
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While blooming youth and gay delight
Sit on thy rosy cheeks confess'd,
Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this destined breast.
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While from our looks, fair nymph, you guess
The secret passions of our mind;
My heavy eyes, you say, confess
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No - I'll endure ten thousand deaths
Ere any further I'll comply:
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high.
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Phillis, give this humour over,
We too long have time abused;
I shall turn an errant rover
If the favour's still refused.
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Her time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes her billet-doux, then says her prayers,
Her mass and toilette, vespers, and the play;
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Forgive the muse who, in unhallow'd strains,
The saint one moment from his God detains;
For sure whate'er you do, where'er you are,
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Since, Moggy, I mun bid adieu,
How can I help despairing?
Let cruel Fate us still pursue,
There's nought more worth my caring.
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At dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Bootes turns the Bear,
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigued with labours of the day,
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