This sublime work begins thus,

  Ye sons of men, with just regard attend,
  Observe the preacher, and believe the friend,
  Whose serious muse inspires him to explain,
  That all we act, and all we think is vain: 
  That in this pilgrimage of seventy years,
  O’er rocks of perils, and thro’ vales of tears
  Destin’d to march, our doubtful steps we tend,
  Tir’d of the toil, yet fearful of its end: 
  That from the womb, we take our fatal shares,
  Of follies, fashions, labours, tumults, cares;
  And at approach of death shall only know,
  The truths which from these pensive numbers flow,
  That we pursue false joy, and suffer real woe.

After an enquiry into, and an excellent description of the various operations, and effects of nature, the system of the heavens, &c. and not being fully informed of them, the first Book concludes,

  How narrow limits were to wisdom given? 
  Earth she surveys; she thence would measure Heav’n: 
  Thro’ mists obscure, now wings her tedious way;
  Now wanders dazl’d, with too bright a day;
  And from the summit of a pathless coast
  Sees infinite, and in that sight is lost.

In the second Book the uncertainty, disappointment, and vexation attending pleasure in general, are admirably described; and in the character of Solomon is sufficiently shewn, that nothing debases majesty, or indeed any man, more than ungovernable passion.

  When thus the gath’ring storms of wretched love
  In my swoln bosom, with long war had strove;
  At length they broke their bounds; at length their force
  Bore down whatever met its stronger course: 
  Laid all the civil bounds of manhood waste. 
  And scatter’d ruin, as the torrent past.

The third Book treats particularly of the trouble and instability of greatness and power, considers man through the several stages and conditions of life, and has excellent reasoning upon life and death.  On the last are these lines;

  Cure of the miser’s wish, and cowards fear,
  Death only shews us, what we knew was near. 
  With courage therefore view the ’pointed hour;
  Dread not death’s anger, but expect its power;
  Nor nature’s laws, with fruitless sorrow mourn;
  But die, O mortal man! for thou wast born.

The poet has likewise these similies on life;

  As smoke that rises from the kindling fires
  Is seen this moment, and the next expires: 
  As empty clouds by rising winds are tost,
  Their fleeting forms no sooner found than lost: 
  So vanishes our state; so pass our days;
  So life but opens now, and now decays;
  The cradle, and the tomb, alas! so nigh;
  To live is scarce distinguished from to die.

We shall conclude this account of Mr. Prior’s life with the following copy of verses, written on his Death by Robert Ingram, esq; which is a very successful imitation of Mr. Prior’s manner.