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.
'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 talks 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.

'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 Howd'y'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:
'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.

Behold the fatal day arrive!

'How is the Dean?'

He's just alive.'

Now the departing prayer 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 publick uses.

To publick uses! there's a whim! 'What had the publick done for him? 'Mere envy, avarice, and pride: 6 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 Grubstreet wits are all employ'd; With elegies the town is cloy'd: Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame.

'We must confess, his case was nice; 'But he would never take advice.

'Had he been rul'd, for aught appears,

He might have liv'd these twenty years: 'For, when we open'd him, we found, 'That all his vital parts were sound.' From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court, The Dean is dead.' And Lady Suffolk in the spleen Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries' Is he gone! 'tis time he should.

He's dead, you say; then let him rot;

I'm glad the medals were forgot.

'I promis'd him, I own; but when ? 'I only was the Princess then :

But now, as Consort of the King, 'You know, 'tis quite another thing'

...

Now Curll 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 he does my betters,
Publish my Will, my Life, my Letters;
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.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
'I'm sorry, but we all must die!'
Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies:
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt!
When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.

The fools, my juniors by a year,
Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;
Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approach'd, to stand between:
The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose 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 soul!

(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)

'Six deans, they say, must bear the pall:
'(I wish I knew what king to call)
Madam, your husband will attend
'The funeral of so good a friend.
'No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight;
And he 's engag'd to-morrow night:
My lady Club will take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
'He lov'd the Dean (I lead a heart)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
'His time was come; he ran his race;
'We hope he 's in a better place.'

Why do we grieve that friends should die?
No loss more easy to supply.

One year is past; a different scene!
No farther mention of the Dean;
Who now, alas, no more is miss'd,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now the favourite of Apollo?
Departed:-And his Works must follow:
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.

Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Inquires for Swift in verse and prose.
Says Lintot,' I have heard the name;
'He died a year ago.'-' The same.'
He searches all the shop in vain.

Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: