A PARAPHRASE FROM THE FRENCH by MATTHEW PRIOR

IN grey-haired Celia's withered arms
As mighty Louis lay,
She cried 'If I have any charms,
My dearest, let's away!
For you, my love, is all my fear,
Hark how the drums do rattle;
Alas, sir! what should you do here
In dreadful day of battle?
Let little Orange stay and fight,
For danger's his diversion;
The wise will think you in the right,
Not to expose your person:
Nor vex your thoughts how to repair
The ruins of your glory:
You ought to leave so mean a care
To those who pen your story.
Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing?
They know how heroes may be made,
Without the help of fighting,
When foes to saucily approach,
'Tis best to leave them fairly;
Put six good horses in your coach,
And carry me to Marly.
Let Bouflers, to secure your fame,
Go take some town, or buy it;
Whilst you, great sir, at Notre Dame,
Te Deum sing in quiet!'

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