His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied,
Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went;
Like any ploughman toil'd the little god,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove:
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And as I bid you let it shine or rain,
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough;
What once Europa was Nannette is now.
More verses by Matthew Prior
- An Ode To A Lady. She Refusing To Continue A Dispute With Me, And Leaving Me In The Argument
- By Mons. Fontenelle
- Songs Set To Music: 26.
- Paulo Purganti And His Wife: An Honest, But A Simple Pair
- Upon Honour. A Fragment.