got any more than the spoons and dishes—the inspiration ceased—the verses were not wanted—the ambassador wasn't wanted. Poor Mat was re-called from his embassy, suffered disgrace along with his patrons, lived under a sort of cloud ever after, and disappeared in Essex, When deprived of all his pensions and emoluments, the hearty and generous Oxford pensioned him. They played for gallant stakes—the bold men of those days—and lived and gave splendidly.
Johnson quotes from Spence a legend, that Prior, after spending an evening with Harley, St. John, Pope, and Swift, would go off and smoke a pipe with a couple of friends of his, a soldier and his wife, in Long Acre. Those who have not read his late excellency's poems should be warned that they smack not a little of the conversation of his Long Acre friends.[1] Johnson speaks slightingly of his lyrics; but with due deference to the great Samuel, Prior's seem to me amongst the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humourous of English lyrical poems. Horace is always in his mind, and his song, and his philosophy, his good sense, his happy easy turns and melody, his loves, and his epicureanism,
- ↑ His epigrams have the genuine sparkle:
The Remedy worse than the Disease.
"I sent for Radcliff; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescribed a pill,
And I was likely to recover.
