THY soul within such silent pomp did keep, As if humanity were lull'd asleep; So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath, Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise, Or the soft journey which a planet goes: Life seem'd all calm as its last breath. A still tranquillity so hush'd thy breast, As if some Halcyon were its guest, And there had built her nest; It hardly now enjoys a greater rest. John Cutts, Lord Cutts. 1661-1707 421. Song ONLY tell her that I love: Leave the rest to her and Fate: Some kind planet from above May perhaps her pity move: Lovers on their stars must wait.-- Only tell her that I love! Why, O why should I despair! Mercy 's pictured in her eye: If she once vouchsafe to hear, Welcome Hope and farewell Fear! She 's too good to let me die.-- Why, O why should I despair? Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 422. The Question to Lisetta WHAT nymph should I admire or trust, But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just? What nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me? To whom should I compose the lay, But her who listens when I play? To whom in song repeat my cares, But her who in my sorrow shares? For whom should I the garland make, But her who joys the gift to take, And boasts she wears it for my sake? In love am I not fully blest? Lisetta, prithee tell the rest. LISETTA'S REPLY Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, Deserves to be your only care; But, when you and she to-day Far into the wood did stray, And I happen'd to pass by, Which way did you cast your eye? But, when your cares to her you sing, You dare not tell her whence they spring: Does it not more afflict your heart, That in those cares she bears a part? When you the flowers for Chloe twine, Why do you to her garland join The meanest bud that falls from mine? Simplest of swains! the world may see Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me. Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 423. To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their passions by their letters. My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fire, and look The power they have to be obey'd. 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 silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair; She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.