First published here 21 June 2015
A Lover’s Anger,
by Matthew Prior
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:
You promis’d at Two; and (pray look Child) ’tis Four.
A Lady’s Watch needs neither Figures nor Wheels:
‘Tis enough, that ’tis loaded with Baubles and Seals.
A Temper so heedless no Mortal can bear—
Thus far I went on with a resolute Air.
Lord bless Me! said She; let a Body but speak:
Here’s an ugly hard Rose-Bud fall’n into my Neck:
It has hurt Me, and vext Me to such a Degree—
See here; for You never believe Me; pray see,
On the left Side my Breast what a Mark it has made.
So saying, her Bosom She careless display’d.
That Seat of Delight I with Wonder survey’d;
And forgot ev’ry Word I design’d to have said.
Comments by our Poetry Editor, Ira Maine
It is curious and interesting to note how almost accidentally reputations are made. Previously we have spoken of the poet John Clare and how he was supported, financially throughout his life by various members of the British aristocracy. One hundred years before Clare was born, a Matthew Prior, (1664-1721) the son of a joiner was born in Middlesex, not far from London. On moving into London, his father (surely at great personal sacrifice) put him to Westminster School. Shortly after this his father died and young Prior went to stay with an uncle, a well regarded London vintner. A Lord Dorset, presumably whilst buying wine, heard young Prior reading Horace and demanded of him that he translate a piece. This was done so successfully that Dorset offered to pay for his continued schooling.
Prior made such good friends and useful connections at Westminster that, having taken a BA at Cambridge (1686) he spent most of the rest of his life serving various governments in roles as various as Chief Secretary for Ireland (1697-1699) MP for East Grinstead and Ambassador to France from 1713 to 1714.
Prior, at a political low point, also spent a couple of years in prison (1715-1717) having been impeached by Robert Walpole for some disgraceful political indiscretion. Remarkably he wrote some of his finest pieces whilst incarcerated.
In the age of satire, of Swift, Dryden and Pope, there was heaps of room for a gifted satirist of Prior’s stamp and his work is hugely well regarded today.
‘A Lover’s Anger’ demonstrates how easily we poor chaps are distracted from the task in hand.
Chloe finally arrives, two hours late, at the appointed rendezvous. Scathingly her lover, stuffed to the gills with frustration, points out that her watch and chain serves no useful purpose whatever other than somewhere to hang-
‘…baubles and seals…’
Mere decorations, flibbertigibbets and gauderies which serve no useful purpose in the business of timekeeping. The man is fit to be tied! Blue in the face! Where the hell has she been? You can just imagine his fists clenching and unclenching as he storms around the room.
‘…Where so long could you stay?…’
‘…a temper so heedless no mortal can bear!…’ (no mortal could accept so unfeeling and heartless an attitude)
How dare you treat me this way! He undoubtedly screeches, as his clenching and his fuming reach a vituperative crescendo.
And then, and then…methinks the lady doth protest…
“…Lord bless me!’ said she: ‘let a body but speak:
Here’s an ugly hard rosebud fallen into my neck;…’(Oh dear me, what can it possibly be?)
And then, poor thing, she begs him to-
‘…See here; for you never believe me; see here’…’
And then God help her, and careless of her precious modesty because she needs to convince him , she, replete with maidenly blushes,
bares herself-
‘…On the left side of my breast what a mark it has made….’
Oh, what a glorious bunch of foolish knaves we are when pitted against the irresistible wiles of women. What man in his right mind could resist young Chloe’s subtle ploy? What a privilege, what an honour, what a breathless-
‘…seat of delight…surveyed…’
It’s a ploy that would, in an instant, and without a doubt, drive everything else from a chap’s mind and cause one to simply bow down and worship at the feet of a master.
“…And forget every word I designed to have said…’
Women…glorious, glorious women… long may the subtly unbuttoned blouse continue to grant you power over us all…