And when it cleared off again,
And smooth the smother,

I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous, biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin'd it first, and show'd its use.
St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows
That I had some repute for prose ;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortified my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside;
If with such talents Heaven hath bless'd 'em,
Have I not reason to detest 'em?

proem;

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thy gifts, but never to my friend :
I tamely can endure the first;
But this with envy makes me burst.
Thus much may serve by way
of
Proceed we therefore to our poem.
The time is not remote, when I
Must, by the course of nature, die ;
When, I foresee, my special friends
Will try to find their private ends :
And, though 'tis hardly understood
Which way my
death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak :
"See how the Dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.

That old vertigo in his head

Will never leave him till he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says:
He cannot call his friends to mind;
Forgets the place where last he din'd;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er
He told them fifty times before.

By J-s we could not see them then,
Nor one nor t'other.

How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?

But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
'Faith! he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter :
In half the time he takes them round
There must another set be found.

"For poetry he's past his prime:
He takes an hour to find a rhyme ;
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:

Not see them then, says Pat M'Hone, Not see them when the cloud was gone?

"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 predictions 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 pray'rs 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 sniv'lers 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 pray'r is read;
He hardly breathes-the Dean is dead!
Before the passing-bell begun,

The news through half the town is run.
"O 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 ;