Who is Matthew Prior

Matthew Prior (21 July 1664 – 18 September 1721) was an English poet and diplomat. He is also known as a contributor to The Examiner.

Early life

Prior was probably born in Middlesex. He was the son of a Nonconformist joiner at Wimborne Minster, East Dorset. His father moved to London, and sent him to Westminster School, under Dr Busby. On his father's death, he left school, and was cared for by his uncle, a vintner in Channel Row. Here Lord Dorset found him reading Horace, and set him to translate an ode. He did so well that the Earl offered to contribute to the continuation of his education at Westminster. One of his schoolfellows and friends was Charles Montagu, 1st Earl of Halifax. It was to avoid being separated from Montagu and his brother James that Prior a...
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Top 10 most used topics by Matthew Prior

Love 80 I Love You 80 Heart 62 Great 53 Never 49 Power 47 Dear 46 Good 46 God 44 Fate 43

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Jourdanrodrigue: matthew stafford is dealing with a neck injury, says sean mcvay, and alerted the staff to numbness in his legs after a hit sunday. stafford had exited the concussion protocol 2 days prior and is back in it now.
_ayyumii: for, when with beauty we can virtue join, we paint the semblance of a form divine. -matthew prior tuloyna22loyna ralphgail
Benmoxon: lions fans that complain about jg16 don’t remember we’re a franchise that had to deal with charlie batch, mike mcmahon, ty detmer, joey harrington, and jeff garcia before settling for jon kitna and the corpse of daunte culpepper prior to the matthew stafford era.
Beliefspowerful: “hope is but the dream of those who wake.” ~ matthew prior
Mattchap24: "...the stars will fall from the sky..." matthew 24:29 nasa currently tracks over 30,000 near-earth objects and assures us of no threats for at least 100 years. however, many small objects remain unknown, some discovered only hours prior to impact or near-impact, if at all.
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Poem of the day

Edith Nesbit Poem
A Tragedy
 by Edith Nesbit

Among his books he sits all day
To think and read and write;
He does not smell the new-mown hay,
The roses red and white.

I walk among them all alone,
His silly, stupid wife;
The world seems tasteless, dead and done -

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