Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE DOVE, by MATTHEW PRIOR Poem Explanation Poet's Biography First Line: In virgil's sacred verse we find Last Line: Says he; for sure I touch his feather. Subject(s): Cupid; Doves; Love; Mythology - Classical; Venus (goddess); Virgil (70-19 B.c.); Eros; Vergil | ||||||||
IN Virgil's sacred verse we find, That passion can depress or raise The heavenly, as the human mind; Who dare deny what Virgil says! But if they should, what our great master Has thus laid down, my tale shall prove; Fair Venus wept the sad disaster Of having lost her favourite Dove. In complaisance poor Cupid mourned; His grief relieved his mother's pain; He vowed he'd leave no stone unturned, But she should have her Dove again. Though none, said he, shall yet be named, I know the felon well enough; But be she not, mamma, condemned Without a fair and legal proof. With that, his longest dart he took, As constable would take his staff; That gods desire like men to look, Would make e'en Heraclitus laugh. Love's subalterns, a duteous band, Like watchmen round their chief appear: Each had his lantern in his hand: And Venus masked brought up the rear. Accoutred thus, their eager step To Cloe's lodging they directed: (At once I write, alas! and weep, That Cloe is of theft suspected.) Late they set out, had far to go: St Dunstan's, as they passed, struck one. Cloe, for reasons good, you know, Lives at the sober end of the town. With one great peal they rap the door, Like footmen on a visiting day. Folks at her house at such an hour! Lord! what will all the neighbours say? The door is open: up they run: Nor prayers, nor threats divert their speed: Thieves! thieves! cries Susan; we're undone; They'll kill my mistress in her bed. In bed indeed the nymph had been Three hours; for all historians say, She commonly went up at ten, Unless piquet was in the way. She waked, be sure, with strange surprise, O Cupid, is this right or law, Thus to disturb the brightest eyes, That ever slept, or ever saw? Have you observed a sitting hare, Listening, and fearful of the storm Of horns and hounds, clap back her ear, Afraid to keep, or leave her form? Or have you marked a partridge quake, Viewing the towering falcon nigh? She cuddles low behind the brake: Nor would she stay; nor dares she fly. Then have you seen the beauteous maid; When gazing on her midnight foes, She turned each way her frighted head, Then sunk it deep beneath the clothes. Venus this while was in the chamber Incognito; for Susan said, It smelt so strong of myrrh and amber -- And Susan is no lying maid. But since we have no present need Of Venus for an episode, With Cupid let us e'en proceed; And thus to Cloe spoke the god: Hold up your head: hold up your hand: Would it were not my lot to show ye This cruel writ, wherein you stand Indicted by the name of Cloe: For that by secret malice stirred, Or by an emulous pride invited, You have purloined the favourite bird In which my mother most delighted. Her blushing face the lovely maid Raised just above the milk-white sheet, A rose-tree in a lily bed Nor glows so red, nor breathes so sweet. Are you not he whom virgins fear, And widows court? is not your name Cupid? If so, pray come not near -- Fair maiden, I'm the very same. Then what have I, good Sir, to say, Or do with her, you call your mother? If I should meet her in my way, We hardly courtesy to each other. Diana chaste, and Hebe sweet, Witness that what I speak is true: I would not give my paroquet For all the Doves that ever flew. Yet, to compose this midnight noise, Go freely search where'er you please: (The rage that raised, adorned her voice) Upon you toilet lie my keys. Her keys he takes, her doors unlocks; Through wardrobe, and through closet bounces; Peeps into every chest and box, Turns all her furbelows and flounces. But Dove, depend on't, finds he none; So to the bed returns again; And now the maiden, bolder grown, Begins to treat him with disdain. I marvel much, she smiling said, Your poultry cannot yet be found; Lies he in yonder slipper dead, Or may be, in the tea-pot drowned! No, traitress, angry Love replies, He's hid somewhere about your breast; A place nor god nor man denies, For Venus' Dove the proper nest. Search then, she said, put in your hand, And Cynthia, dear protectress, guard me; As guilty I, or free may stand, Do thou, or punish, or reward me. But ah! what maid to Love can trust; He scorns, and breaks all legal power; Into her breast his hand he thrust; And in a moment forced it lower. O, whither do those fingers rove, Cries Cloe, treacherous urchin, whither? O Venus! I shall find thy Dove, Says he; for sure I touch his feather. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN HELL WITH VIRG AND DAN: CANTO 17 by CAROLYN KIZER DIDO OF TUNISIA by PHYLLIS MCGINLEY PUBLIUS VERGILUS MARO, THE MADISON AVENUE HICK by JOHN UPDIKE VIRGILS GNAT by EDMUND SPENSER AN EPISTLE: ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HAMNER (1) by WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) VIRGIDEMIAE: BOOK 1: SATIRE 6 by JOSEPH HALL ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS SONNET: 9. DANTE AND VIRGIL by HENRY CLARENCE KENDALL A BETTER ANSWER (TO CHLOE JEALOUS) by MATTHEW PRIOR A DUTCH PROVERB by MATTHEW PRIOR A LETTER TO LADY [MISS] MARGARET-CAVANDISH-HOLLES-HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD by MATTHEW PRIOR |
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