Wednesday – On My Birthday, June 12
I turn 68 today so I share a birthday poem written by Matthew Prior (1664-1721). In it, he complains about being rejected by Clotilda, a name he plucks from the pastoral tradition.
While the poet’s “jolly comrades” are prepared to “bring me music, wreaths, and mirth/And ask to celebrate my birth,” he would rather have not been born as long as Clotilda withholds her felicitations.
If only Venus would chase “imperious anger” from his mistress’s face and prompt her to lovingly say, “Thou, my dear, wert born today,” then he’ll feel like celebrating. Without that, however, there will be no wreath surrounding his hair or music pleasing his ear. His happiness, he informs her, depends on her.
Sounds like emotional blackmail to me.
Fortunately for me, I have a wife and a mother who will be sharing their mirth, blessing my birth, and smilingly telling me, “Thou, my dear, were born today.” I, in return, shall “salute the rising ray”—which is to say, celebrate the day.
On My Birthday, July 21
I, my dear, was born to-day—
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne’er been born:
I wish to die, even whilst I say—
‘I, my dear, was born today.’
I, my dear, was born today:
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe?
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say—
‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’
