On The Same Person (Who Wrote Ill, And Spake Worse, Against Me)

While faster than his costive brain indites
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes;
His case appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with by his legs.
Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink;
So he may cease to write, and learn to think.

Matthew Prior

Matthew Prior was an English poet and diplomat. He is known for his extensive contributions to poetry during the late 17th and early 18th centuries. Prior's works often blend sharp wit, classical allusions, and a mastery of form. Apart from poetry, he was actively involved in politics and served as a diplomat for the English government. His poetry reflects his broad knowledge and varied experiences.

Matthew Prior

Epigram - Yes, Every Poet Is A Fool

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

The Despairing Shepherd

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

An Ode - Presented To The King, On His Majesty's Arrival In Holland, After The Queen's Death

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

To A Young Lady, Who Was Fond Of Fortune-Telling

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To A Person Who Wrote Ill, And Spake Worse, Against Me

Lie Philo untouch'd, on my peaceable shelf,
Nor take it amiss that so little I heed thee;
I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself:
Then why should I answer since first I must read thee?
Drunk with Helicon's waters, and double-brew'd bub,
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the solid delight of thy well-judging club,
To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag.
Pursue me with satire; what harm is there in't?
But from all viva voce reflection forbear;
There can be no danger from what thou shalt print,
There may be a little from what thou may'st swear.

Matthew Prior

In Imitation Of Anacreon

Let 'em Censure: what care I?
The Herd of Criticks I defie.
Let the Wretches know, I write
Regardless of their Grace, or Spight.
No, no: the Fair, the Gay, the Young
Govern the Numbers of my Song.
All that They approve is sweet:
And All is Sense, that They repeat.
Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, String thy Servant's Lyre:
Love shall be my endless Theme:
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:
And when these Maxims I decline,
Apollo, may Thy Fate be Mine:
May I grasp at empty Praise;
And lose the Nymph, to gain the Bays.

Matthew Prior

An Epistle To Fleetwood Shephard, Esq.

When crowding folks, with strange ill faces,
Were making legs, and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tired out my good Lord Dorset's spirit:
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the clock struck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies;
Till, patience vex'd, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry!
But did opine it might be better,
By penny-post to send a letter;
Now, if you miss of this epistle,
I'm baulk'd again, and may go whistle.
My business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place;
And fair pretensions I have for't,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg'd, you always granted.
Now, as you t...

Matthew Prior

Horace, Lib. I, Epist. IX, Imitated. To The Right Honourable Mr. Harley

Dear Dick, how e'er it comes into his head,
Believes, as firmly as he does his creed,
That you and I, sir, are extremely great;
Though I plain Mat, you minister of state.
One word from me, without all doubt, he says,
Would fix his fortune in some little place.
Thus better than myself, it seems, he knows
How far my interest with my patron goes;
And answering all objections I can make,
Still plunges deeper in his dear mistake.

From this wild fancy, sir, there may proceed
One wilder yet, which I foresee, and dread;
That I, in fact, a real interest have,
Which to my own advantage I would save,
And, with the usual courtier's trick, intend
To serve myself, forgetful of my friend.

To shun this censure, I all shame lay by,
And make my reason with his ...

Matthew Prior

To The Honourable Charles Montague, Esq.

Howe'er, 'tis well that, while mankind
Through fate's perverse meander errs,
He can imagined pleasures find
To combat against real cares.

Fancies and notions he pursues,
Which ne'er had being but in thought;
Each, like the Grecian artist, wooes,
The image he himself has wrought.

Against experience he believes;
He argues against demonstration:
Pleased when his reason he deceives,
And sets his judgement by his passion.

The hoary fool, who many days
Has struggled with continued sorrow,
Renew's his hope, and blindly lays
The desperate bet upon to-morrow.

To-morrow comes: 'tis noon, 'tis night:
This day like all the former flies;
Yet on he runs to seek delight
To-morrow, till to-night he dies.

Our hopes like towerin...

Matthew Prior

Apollo To The Dean.[1] 1720

Right Trusty, and so forth - we let you know
We are very ill used by you mortals below.
For, first, I have often by chemists been told,
(Though I know nothing on't,) it is I that make gold;
Which when you have got, you so carefully hide it,
That, since I was born, I hardly have spied it.
Then it must be allow'd, that, whenever I shine,
I forward the grass, and I ripen the vine;
To me the good fellows apply for relief,
Without whom they could get neither claret nor beef:
Yet their wine and their victuals, those curmudgeon lubbards
Lock up from my sight in cellars and cupboards.
That I have an ill eye, they wickedly think,
And taint all their meat, and sour all their drink.
But, thirdly and lastly, it must be allow'd,
I alone can inspire the poetical crowd:
This...

Jonathan Swift