Matthew Prior

Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty Face? / Thy Cheek all on Fire, and Thy Hair all uncurl'd: / Pr'ythee quit this Caprice; and (as old Falstaf says)

Fire, Water, Woman, are Man's Ruin; / Says wise Professor Vander Bruin. / By Flames a House I hir'd was lost

When famed Varelst this little wonder drew, / Flora vouchsafed the growing works to view; / Finding the painter's science at a stand,

My noble, lovely, little Peggy, / Let this my First Epistle beg ye, / At dawn of morn, and close of even,

Since hired for life, thy servile Muse must sing / Successive conquests and a glorious King; / Must of a man immortal vainly boast,

As Cloe came into the Room t'other Day, / I peevish began; Where so long cou'd You stay? / In your Life-time You never regarded your Hour:

In awful pomp and melancholy state, / See settled Reason on the judgement-seat; / Around her crowd Distrust, and Doubt, and Fear,

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies: / His spouse is in despair; / With frequent cries, and mutual sighs,

Quoth Richard in jest looking wistly at Nelly, / Methinks child you seem something round in the belly. / Nell answer'd him snappishly, how can that be,

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop / Thy head into a tin-man's shop? / There, Thomas, didst thou never see