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 stunted:
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

s 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 breaft: "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 should he obstruct my view?
Then let me have the higher poft;
Suppose 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 wish his lawrels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,

15

20

25

Lies rack'd with pain, and you without:

How patiently you hear him groan!

How glad, the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to fee

His brother write as well as he?

But, rather than they should excel,
Would with his rivals all in hell?

30

Her end when emulation miffes,

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

Vain human-kind! fantastick race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,

Their empire in our hearts divide.

40

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

I have no title to aspire;

Yet, when you fink, I seem the higher.

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;

50

Which I was born to introduce ;

55

Refin'd it first, and fhew'd its use.

St. John, as well as Pultney,+ knows

That I had fome repute for profe;

Viscount Bolingbroke.

+ 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,
And made me throw my pen afide;

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:

60

65

I tamely can endure the first ;

But this with envy makes me burst,

Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore to our poem.

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

Which way my death can do them good,

70

75

Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak:

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 stories 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 some men.

And then their tenderness appears

By adding largely to my years:

100

He's older than he would be reckon❜d,

105

And well remembers Charles the second.

He hardly drinks a pint of wine;

And that, I doubt, is no good fign.

His ftomach too begins to fail:

Laft 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.