His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen ;-
But there's no talking to some men.'
And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years:
'He's older than he would be reckon'd,
And well remembers Charles the second:
He hardly drinks a pint of wine,
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
His stomach, too, begins to fail:

Last year we thought him strong and hale,
But now he's quite another thing;

I wish he may hold out till spring.'
They hug themselves, and reason thus,
It is not yet so bad with us."

In such a case they talk in tropes,
And by their fears express their hopes.
Some great misfortune to portend,
No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,
The merit of a lucky guess

(When daily How-d'ye's come of course,

And servants answer, Worse and worse!')
Would please them better than to tell
That, God be prais'd! the Dean is well.'
Then he who prophesied the best
Approves his foresight to the rest :
You know I always fear'd the worst,
And often told you so at first.'
He'd rather choose that I should die
Than his prediction prove a lie:
Not one foretells I shall recover,
But all agree to give me over.

Yet should some neighbour feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send?
What hearty prayers that I should mend?
Inquire what regimen I kept,

What gave me ease, and how I slept?

And more lament when I was dead
Than all the snivellers round my bed.
My good companions! never fear,
For though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!
'How is the Dean? He's just alive.'
Now the departing prayer is read;
He hardly breathes-The Dean is dead.
Before the passing-bell begun,

The news through half the town is run.
"Oh! may we all for death prepare!
What has he left? and who's his heir?'
'I know no more than what the news is ;
'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses.'

To public uses! there's a whim!
What had the public done for him?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride;
He gave it all-but first he died.
And had the Dean in all the nation
No worthy friend, no poor relation?
So ready to do strangers good,
Forgetting his own flesh and blood !'

Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd;
With elegies the Town is cloy'd;
Some paragraph in every paper

To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier, The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame.

We must confess his case was nice, But he would never take advice: Had he been rul'd, for aught appears, He might have liv'd these twenty years, For when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound.' From Dublin soon to London spread 'Tis told at court the Dean is dead, And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen:

The queen so gracious, mild, and good,
Cries, Is he gone? 'tis time he should.
He's dead, you say; then let him rot;
I'm glad the medals were forgot.
I promis'd him, I own; but when?
I only was the princess then;
But now, as consort of the king,
You know 'tis quite a different thing.'
Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy :
Why, if he died without his shoes,
(Cries Bob) I'm sorry for the news..
Oh! were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,

Provided Bolingbroke were dead!"

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains : Three genuine tomes of Swift's Remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbald, Moore, and Cibber. He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters; Revive the libels born to die, Which Pope must bear as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament: Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen and drop a tear : The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 'I'm sorry-but we all must die!' Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies; For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt? When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God.

The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear,

Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approach'd, to stand between ;
The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without dissembling.
My female friends, whose tender hearts
Have better learn'd to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps;
The Dean is dead, (pray what is trumps?)
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)
Six deans, they say, must bear the pall,
(I wish I knew what king to call.)
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend.'

No, Madam, 'tis a shocking sight,
And he's engag'd to-morrow night;
My Lady Club will take it ill

If he should fail her at Quadrille,
He lov'd the Dean-(I lead a heart)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come; he ran his race;

We hope he's in a better place.'

Why do we grieve that friends should die ?

No loss more easy to supply.

One year is past: a different scene!

No farther mention of the Dean,

Who now, alas! is no more mist

Than if he never did exist.

Where's now the favourite of Apollo ?
Departed:- and his Works must follow:"
Must undergo the common fate;

His kind of wit is out of date.

Some country 'squire to Liutot goes,
Inquires for Swift in verse and prose?
Says Lintot, I have heard the name;
He died a year ago.'-The same.'
He searches all the shop in vain:
Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;
I sent them with a load of books,
Last Monday, to the pastry-cooks.

To fancy they could live a year !
I find you're but a stranger here.
The Dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme :
His way of writing now is past;
The Town has got a better taste.
I keep no antiquated stuff,

But spick and span I have enough.
Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em :
Here's Colly Cibber's birth day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck upon the Queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend;
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.

Next, here's Sir Robert's Vindication,
And Mr. Henly's last oration :

The hawkers have not got them yet:

Your Honour, please to buy a set ?

'Here's Woolston's Tracts, the twelfth edition;

"Tis read by every politician.

The country-members, when in Town,
To all their boroughs send them down;
You never met a thing so smart ;
The courtiers have them all by heart;
Those maids of honour who can read
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The reverend author's good intention
Hath been rewarded with a pension:
He doth an honour to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down ;
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloster,
That was a grand imposter,
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he hath not got a mitre !"
Suppose me dead, and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose,