CXV.

OH

PHILLADA.

H! what a pain is love :
How shall I bear it?

She will unconstant prove,
I greatly fear it.

She so torments my mind,

That my strength faileth,
And wavers with the wind
As a ship saileth:
Please her the best I may,
She loves still to gainsay:
Alack and well-a-day!

Phillada flouts me.

All the fair yesterday
She did pass by me,
She looked another way

And would not spy me:

I woo'd her for to dine,

But could not get her;

Will had her to the wine

He might intreat her.

ANON. 1658.

With Daniel she did dance,
On me she looked askance :
Oh! thrice unhappy chance;
Phillada flouts me.

Fair maid! be not so coy,

Do not disdain me!

I am my mother's joy:

Sweet! entertain me!
She'll give me when she dies
All that is fitting :
Her poultry and her bees,
And her goose sitting,

A pair of mattrass beds,
And a bag full of shreds;
And yet, for all this guedes,
Phillada flouts me.

She hath a clout of mine,

Wrought with blue coventry,

Which she keeps for a sign

Of my fidelity:
But, 'faith, if she flinch,

She shall not wear it ;

To Tib, my t' other wench,

I mean to bear it.

And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part:

Death strike me with his dart!
Phillada flouts me.

Thou shalt eat crudded cream
All the year lasting,

And drink the crystal stream
Pleasant in tasting,

Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
And ramble-berries,

Pie-lid and pastry crust,

Pears, plums, and cherries;

Thy raiment shall be thin,

Made of a weevil's skin

Yet all's not worth a pin:
Phillada flouts me.

Fair maiden! have a care,

And in time take me;

I can have those as fair,

If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy maid

Laughed at me lately,

And wanton Winifred

Favours me greatly.

One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose: What wanting signs are those! Phillada flouts me.

I cannot work nor sleep
At all in season:

Love wounds my heart so deep,
Without all reason.

I 'gin to pine away

In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may

Penned in a meadow.

I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year:

And all for that my dear

Phillada flouts me.

CXVI.

MATTHEW PRIOR, 1664-1721.

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD. MDCCIV. THE AUTHOR

L

THEN FORTY.

ORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band,

That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,

Were summoned by her high command,
To shew their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look, The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell,

Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For while she makes her silk-worms beds,
With all the tender things, I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair.