Of all the gifts the gods afford
  (If we may take old Tully’s word)
  The greatest is a friend, whose love
  Knows how to praise, and when reprove;
  From such a treasure never part,
  But hang the jewel on your heart: 
  And pray, sir (it delights me) tell;
  You know this author mighty well—­
  Know him! d’ye question it? ods fish! 
  Sir, does a beggar know his dish? 
  I lov’d him, as I told you, I
  Advis’d him—­here a stander-by
  Twitch’d Damon gently by the cloke,
  And thus unwilling silence broke: 
  Damon, ’tis time we should retire,
  The man you talk with is Matt.  Prior.

    Patron, thro’ life, and from thy birth my friend,
  Dorset, to thee this fable let me send: 
  With Damon’s lightness weigh thy solid worth;
  The foil is known to set the diamond forth: 
  Let the feign’d tale this real moral give,
  How many Damons, how few Dorsets live!

Mr. Prior, after the fatigue of a length of years past in various services of action, was desirous of spending the remainder of his days in rural tranquility, which the greatest men of all ages have been fond of enjoying:  he was so happy as to succeed in his wish, living a very retired, and contemplative life, at Downhall in Essex, and found, as he expressed himself, a more solid, and innocent satisfaction among woods, and meadows, than he had enjoyed in the hurry, and tumults of the world, the courts of Princes, or the conducting foreign negotiations; and where as he melodiously sings,

  The remnant of his days he safely past,
  Nor found they lagg’d too slow, nor flew too fast;
  He made his wish with his estate comply,
  Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die.

This great man died on the 18th of September, 1721, at Wimple in Cambridgshire, the seat of the earl of Oxford, with whose friendship he had been honoured for some years.  The death of so distinguished a person was justly esteemed an irreparable loss to the polite world, and his memory will be ever dear to those, who have any relish for the muses in their softer charms.  Some of the latter part of his life was employed in collecting materials for an History of the Transactions of his own Times, but his death unfortunately deprived the world of what the touches of so masterly a hand, would have made exceeding valuable.

Mr. Prior, by the suffrage of all men of taste, holds the first rank in poetry, for the delicacy of his numbers, the wittiness of his turns, the acuteness of his remarks, and, in one performance, for the amazing force of his sentiments.  The stile of our author is likewise so pure, that our language knows no higher authority, and there is an air of original in his minutest performances.

It would be superfluous to give any detail of his poems, they are in the hands of all who love poetry, and have been as often admired, as read.  The performance however, for which he is most distinguished, is his Solomon; a Poem in three Books, the first on Knowledge, the second on Pleasure, and the third on Power.  We know few poems to which this is second, and it justly established his reputation as one of the best writers of his age.