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 profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how d'y's come of course, 115 120 And fervants answer, "worse and worse !") "You know, I always fear'd the worst, But all agree to give me over. Yet fhould fome 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? 125 130 155 140 Though your prognosticks run too fast, Behold the fatal day arrive! The news thro' half the town has run. 145 151 To publick ufes! there's a whim! What had the publick done for him? He gave it all - - - - but first he dy❜d. And had the dean in all the nation 155 To curfe the dean, or bless the drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wifely on me lay all the blame. We must confefs his cafe was nice; But he would never take advice. 170 Had he been rul'd, for ought appears, From Dublin foon to London spread, 175 ** fo gracious, mild and good, Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. Now Chartres †, at Sir Robert's ‡ levee, Why if he dy'd without his shoes, 190 * "Mrs. Howard, then countess of Suffolk, and one of the bedchamber to the late queen.” +"Colonel Francis ' Charteris,' whose character may feen in an epitaph written by Dr. Arbuthnot.” be Sir Robert Walpole, prime minifter, 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 ; Which Pope must bear, as well as I. Here shift the scene to reprefent 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 Indifference clad in wisdom's guife * Mr. Pulteney. 200 206 210 + "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, The fools, my juniors by a year, 216 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: "The dean is dead (pray, what is trumps?) "Then, Lord have mercy on his foul. (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) 225 "Six deans, they say, must bear the pall. 66 (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: 230 "My lady Club wou'd take it ill "If he should fail at her quadrill. 235 "He lov'd the dean, (I lead a heart) "We hope he's in a better place.” 240 |