Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:
Till once a parfon of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev'd,
Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was ftunted:
So the next parfon stub'd and burnt it.

175

VERSES.

ON THE

DEATH OF DOCTOR SWIFT.

OCCASIONED BY READING THE FOLLOWING MAXIM IN ROCHFOUCAULT:

Dans l'adverfité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons toujours quelque chofe, qui ne nous déplaift pas.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF: NOV. 1731.

As Rochfoucault his maxims drew
From nature, I believe 'em true :
They argue no corrupted mind

In him; the fault is in mankind,

This maxim more than all the reft Is thought too base for human breast: "In all diftreffes of our friends

5

"We first confult our private ends; "While Nature, kindly bent to ease us, "Points out fome circumftance to please us." If this perhaps your patience move, Let reafon and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes

Our equal rais'd above our size.

I love my friend as well as you:
But why fhould he obftruct my view?
Then let me have the higher post;
Suppofe it but an inch at most.

If in a battle you should find

One whom you love of all mankind,
Had fome heroick action done,

A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,

Wou'd you not with his lawrels cropt?
Dear honeft Ned is in the gout,

Lies rack'd with pain, and you without :
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad, the cafe is not your own!
What poet would not grieve to fee
His brother write as well as he?

But, rather than they should excel,

15

20

25

30

Her end when emulation miffes,

She turns to envy, ftings, and hiffes:
The strongest friendship yields to pride, 35
Unless the odds be on our fide.

Vain human-kind! fantaftick race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.

Give others riches, power, and station; 'Tis all on me an ufurpation.

I have no title to aspire ;

Yet, when you fink, I feem the higher.

40

In Pope I cannot read a line,

45

But with a figh I wish it mine:
When he can in one couplet fix
More fenfe than I can do in fix,
It gives me fuch a jealous fit,
I cry, Pox take him and his wit.
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 fhew'd its ufe.

*

St. John, as well as Pultney,+ knows

That I had some repute for prose;

Viscount Bolingbroke.

50

55

✦ William Pulteney, efq; afterward earl of Bath.

And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of ftate,

If they have mortify'd my pride,

afide;

And made me throw my pen
If with fuch talents heav'n hath bleft 'em,
Have I not reason to deteft 'em?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, fend
Thy gifts, but never to my friend:
I tamely can endure the first;

But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much ferve by way of

may

Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote, when I Muft by the course of nature dye; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends. And, tho' 'tis hardly understood

60

65

proem;

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

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75

80

Will never leave him till he's dead.

Befides, his memory decays:

He recollects not what he fays;

He cannot call his friends to mind;

85

Forgets the place where laft he din'd:

Plies you with ftories o'er and o'er;
He told 'em fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can fit
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 ftories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter:
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another fet be found.

For poetry, he's past his prime;
He takes an hour to find a rhime:
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy funk, his muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his. pen;
But there's no talking to fome men.

And then their tenderness appears

By adding largely to my years:

90

95

100

He's older than he would be reckon'd,

105

And well remembers Charles the fecond.

He hardly drinks a pint of wine;

And that, I doubt, is no good fign.

His ftomach 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 fo bad with us.