Take me, my Chloe, to thy breaſt;
And lull my wearied ſoul to reſt:
For ever, in this humble cell,
Let thee, and I my fair one dwell;
None enter elſe, but Love—and he
Shall bar the door, and keep the key.
To painted roofs, and ſhining ſpires
(Uneaſy ſeats of high deſires)
Let the unthinking many croud,
That dare be covetous, and proud;
In golden bondage let them wait,
And barter happineſs for ſtate:
But oh! my Chloe when thy ſwain
Deſires to ſee a court again;
May Heav’n around his deſtin’d head
The choiceſt of his curſes ſhed,
To ſum up all the rage of fate,
In the two things I dread, and hate,
May’ſt thou be falſe, and I be great.
In July 1721, within two months of his death, Mr. Prior publiſhed the following beautiful little tale on the falſehood of mankind, entitled The Converſation, and applied it to the truth, honour, and juſtice of his grace the duke of Dorſet.
The CONVERSATION. A Tale.
It always has been thought diſcreet
To know the company you meet;
And ſure, there may be ſecret danger
In talking much before a ſtranger.
Agreed: what then? then drink your ale;
I’ll pledge you, and repeat my tale.
No matter where the ſcene is fix’d,
The perſons were but odly mix’d,
