part of the character. If you have not read the verses lately, I am sure you remember them, because you forget nothing.

With such a grace you entertain,

And look with such contempt on pain, &c.

I mention them not upon account of that couplet, but one that follows; which ends with the very same rhymes and words (appear and clear) that the couplet but one after that does; and therefore in my Waller there is a various reading of the first of these couplets; for there it runs thus:

So lightnings in a stormy air,

Scorch more than when the sky is fair.

You will say that I am not very much in pain, nor very busy, when I can relish these amusements, and you will say true; for at present I am in both these respects very easy.

I had not strength enough to attend Mr. Prior to his grave,* else I would have done it, to have

* There are four or five letters of the Bishop to Prior, in Nichols's Collection, full of affection and regard. One, in a vein of irony, containing a pleasing compliment on his Solomon and Alma. Another (vol. ii. p. 58,) abounding in hackneyed quotations from Virgil; which I mention on account of a wonderful unscholarlike comparison of a line of Virgil and Homer; the former of which he prefers,-dum spiritus hos regit artus,—to the pa γενατα of Homer; friendly knees, he says; whereas a signifies no more than sua genua, or than hos joined to artus. Two severe epigrams against Atterbury have been ascribed to Prior, and are both inserted in the late collection of his works.

Meek Francis lies here, friend. Without stop or stay,
As you value your peace, make the best of your way.

Though

shewn his friends that I had forgot and forgiven what he wrote on me. He is buried, as he desired, at the feet of Spenser, and I will take care to make good in every respect what I said to him when living; particularly as to the triplet he wrote for his own epitaph; which, while we were in good terms, I promised him should never appear on his tomb while I was Dean of Westminster.

Though at present arrested by Death's caitiff paw,
If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law:
And in the King's Bench should a verdict be found
That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground,
He will claim to himself what is strictly his due,
And an action of trespass will straightway ensue,
That you, without right, on his premises tread,
On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.

The other was occasioned by the funeral of the Duke of Buckingham, whom Prior survived but a few months.

"I have no hopes," the Duke he says, and dies;
"In sure and certain hopes," the prelate cries:
Of these two learned peers, I pr'ythee, say, man,
Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman?
The duke he stands an infidel confess'd;
"He's our dear brother," quoth the lordly priest.
The duke, though knave, still "Brother dear," he cries,
And who can say, the reverend prelate lies?

There cannot be a stronger proof of Atterbury's restless and ambitious temper, than is exhibited in the letter written to him by his father, 1690, in vol. i. of Nichols's Collection, p. 11. In the British Museum there is one letter of Pope to Prior, in commendation of his poem, intitled Damon, a little piece of true humour. Warton.

As Atterbury survived Prior many years, the above epitaphs (if by Prior) must have been written in Atterbury's lifetime, in the same manner as Sannazarius frequently amused himself in writing satirical epitaphs on persons then living.

I am pleased to find you have so much pleasure, and (which is the foundation of it) so much health at Lord Bathurst's: may both continue till I see you! May my Lord have as much satisfaction in building the house in the wood,* and using it when built, as you have in designing it! I cannot send a wish after him that means him more happiness, and yet, I am sure, I wish him as much as he wishes himself. I am, &c.

LETTER X.

FROM THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

Bromley, October 15, 1721.

NOTWITHSTANDING I write this on Sunday even, to acknowledge the receipt of yours this morning, yet, I foresee, it will not reach you till Wednesday morning. And before set of sun that day I hope to reach my winter-quarters at the deanery. I hope, did I say? I recal that word, for it implies desire; and, God knows, that is far from being the case. For I never part with this place but with regret, though I generally keep here what Mr. Cowley calls the worst of company in the world, my own; and see either none beside, or what is worse than none, some of the Arrii, or Sebosi of my neighbourhood; characters, which

* The rough sketch of this design is in the British Museum.

Bowles.

Tully paints so well in one of his Epistles, and complains of the too civil, but impertinent interruption they gave him in his retirement. Since I have named those gentlemen, and the book is not far from me, I will turn to the place, and by pointing it out to you, give you the pleasure of perusing the epistle, which is a very agreeable one, if my memory does not fail me.

I am surprized to find that my Lord Bathurst and you are parted so soon; he has been sick, I know, of some late transactions; but should that sickness continue still in some measure, I prophesy, it will be quite off by the beginning of November. A letter or two from his London friends, and a surfeit of solitude, will soon make him change his resolution and his quarters. I vow to you, I could live here with pleasure all the winter, and be contented with hearing no more news than the London Journal, or some such trifling paper, affords me, did not the duty of my place require, absolutely require, my attendance at Westminster; where, I hope, the prophet will now and then remember he has a bed and a candlestick. In short, I long to see you, and hope you will come, if not a day, at least an hour sooner to town than you intended, in order to afford me that satisfaction. I am now, I thank God! as well as ever I was in my life, except that I can walk scarce at all without crutches: and would willingly compound the matter with the gout, to be no better, could

I hope to be no worse, but that is a vain thought; I expect a new attack long before Christmas. Let me see you therefore while I am in a condition to relish you, before the days (and the nights) come, when I shall (and must) say, I have no pleasure in them.

I will bring your small volume of Pastorals along with me, that you may not be discouraged from lending me books, when you find me so punctual in returning them. Shakespear shall bear it company, and be put into your hands as clear and as fair as it came out of them, though you, I think, have been dabbling here and there with the text. I have had more reverence for the writer and the printer, and left every thing standing just as I found it. However, I thank you for the pleasure you have given me in putting me upon reading him once more before I die.

I believe I shall scarce repeat that pleasure any more, having other work to do, and other things to think of, but none that will interfere with the offices of friendship, in the exchange of which with you, Sir, I hope to live and die

Your, &c.

P. S. Addison's works came to my hands yesterday. I cannot but think it a very odd set of incidents, that the book should be dedicated by a dead man* to a dead man;t and even that the new pa+ Mr. Craggs.

*Mr. Addison.