In fuch a cafe they talk in tropes, And, by their fears, express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, With all the kindness they profefs, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how d'y's come of course, 115 120 And fervants anfwer, "worfe and worse !") Wou'd please them better, than to tell, That, God be prais'd! the dean is well. Then he who prophefy'd the best, Approves his judgment to the rest: "You know, I always fear'd the worst, But all agree to give me over. Yet should some neighbour feel a pain Juft in the parts where I complain; How many a meffage would he fend? What hearty prayers that I should mend? Enquire what regimen I kept; What gave me ease, and how I flept? My good companions, never fear; 125 130 155 140 Though your prognofticks run too faft, Behold the fatal day arrive! The news thro' half the town has run. 145 151 I know no more, than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeath'd to publick uses. 155 To publick uses! there's a whim! What had the publick done for him? To curfe the dean, or blejs the drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wifely on me lay all the blame. We must confefs his cafe was nice; 170 Had he been rul'd, for ought appears, From Dublin foon to London spread, 175 ** so gracious, mild and good, Cries," Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. Now Chartres +, at Sir Robert's ‡ levée, 190 "Mrs. Howard, then countess of Suffolk, and one of the bedchamber to the late queen." +"Colonel Francis' Charteris,' whofe character may be feen in an epitaph written by Dr. Arbuthnot." Sir Robert Walpole, prime minister, afterward earl of Orford. Oh! were the wretch but living ftill, Now Curl his shop from rubbish drains : Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.+ He'll treat me as does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters ; 200 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. "I'm forry, but we all muft die." Indifference clad in wisdom's guife All fortitude of mind fupplies : *Mr. Pulteney. 206 210 "An infamous bookfeller, who published things in the dean's name which he never wrote." See their characters in the Dunciad. For how can ftony bowels melt In those, who never pity felt? When we are lafht, they kiss'd the rod, 216 The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with fufpence and fear; Who wifely thought my age a fcreen, When death approacht, to ftand between; The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without diffembling. My female friends, whofe tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps : 225 "The dean is dead (pray, what is trumps?) "Then, Lord have mercy on his foul. (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) "Six deans, they say, muft bear the pall. (I wish I knew what king to call.) "Madam, your husband will attend "The fun'ral of fo good a friend. "No, madam, 'tis a fhocking fight; "And he's engag'd to-morrow night: My lady Club wou'd take it ill "If he fhould fail at her quadrill. 230 235 "He lov'd the dean, (I lead a heart) 240 |