In July 1721, within two months of his death, Mr. Prior published the following beautiful little tale on the falshood of mankind, entitled The Conversation, and applied it to the truth, honour, and justice of his grace the duke of Dorset.

  The conversation.  A Tale.

  It always has been thought discreet
  To know the company you meet;
  And sure, there may be secret danger
  In talking much before a stranger. 
  Agreed:  what then? then drink your ale;
  I’ll pledge you, and repeat my tale.

    No matter where the scene is fix’d,
  The persons were but odly mix’d,
  When sober Damon thus began: 
  (And Damon is a clever man)

    I now grow old; but still from youth,
  Have held for modesty and truth,
  The men, who by these sea-marks steer,
  In life’s great voyage, never err;
  Upon this point I dare defy
  The world; I pause for a reply.

    Sir, either is a good assistant,
  Said one, who sat a little distant: 
  Truth decks our speeches, and our books,
  And modesty adorns our looks: 
  But farther progress we must take;
  Not only born to look and speak,
  The man must act.  The Stagyrite
  Says thus, and says extremely right;
  Strict justice is the sovereign guide,
  That o’er our actions should preside;
  This queen of virtue is confess’d
  To regulate and bind the rest. 
  Thrice happy, if you can but find
  Her equal balance poise your mind: 
  All diff’rent graces soon will enter,
  Like lines concurrent to their center.

    ’Twas thus, in short, these two went on,
  With yea and nay, and pro and con,
  Thro’ many points divinely dark,
  And Waterland assaulting Clarke;
  ’Till, in theology half lost,
  Damon took up the Evening-Post;
  Confounded Spain, compos’d the North,
  And deep in politics held forth.

    Methinks, we’re in the like condition,
  As at the treaty of partition;
  That stroke, for all King William’s care,
  Begat another tedious war. 
  Matthew, who knew the whole intrigue,
  Ne’er much approv’d that mystic league;
  In the vile Utrecht treaty too,
  Poor man! he found enough to do. 
  Sometimes to me he did apply;
  But downright Dunstable was I,
  And told him where they were mistaken,
  And counsell’d him to save his bacon: 
  But (pass his politics and prose)
  I never herded with his foes;
  Nay, in his verses, as a friend,
  I still found something to commend. 
  Sir, I excus’d his Nut-brown maid;
  Whate’er severer critics said: 
  Too far, I own, the girl was try’d: 
  The women all were on my side. 
  For Alma I return’d him thanks,
  I lik’d her with her little pranks;
  Indeed, poor Solomon, in rhime,
  Was much too grave to be sublime. 
  Pindar and Damon scorn transition,
  So on he ran a new division;
  ’Till, out of breath, he turn’d to spit: 
  (Chance often helps us more than wit)
  T’other that lucky moment took,
  Just nick’d the time, broke in, and spoke.