"In all Diftreffes of our Friends "We first confult our private Ends, "While Nature kindly bent to eafe us, "Points out fome Circumftance to please us.
Ir this perhaps your Patience move Let Reason and Experience prove.
WE all behold with envious Eyes,
Our Equal rais'd above our Size ;
Who wou'd not at a crowded Show,
Stand high himself, keeps others low ?
I love my Friend as well as you,
But would not have him ftop my View
Then let me have the higher Poft;
I afk but for an Inch at moft.
If in a Battle you should find,
One, whom you love of all Minkind,
Had fome heroick Action done,
A Champion kill'd, or Trophy won;
Rather than thus be over-topt,
Would you not wifh his Lawrels cropt?
DEAR honeft Ned is in the Gout,
Lies rackt with Pain, and you
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the Cafe is not your own!
WHAT Poet would not grieve to fee,
His Brethren write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
He'd with his Rivals all in Hell.
HER End when Emulation miffes, She turns to Envy, Stings and Hiffes: The strongest Friendship yields to Pride, Unless the Odds be on our Side.
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 afpire;
Yet, when you fink, I-feem the higher.
In POPE, I cannot read a Line,
But with a Sigh, I wish it mine!
When he can in one Couplet fix
More Senfe than I can do in Six:
It gives me fuch a jealous Fit,
I cry, Pox take him, and his Wit.
WHY must I be outdone by GAY, In my own hum'rous biting Way?
ARBUTHNOT is no more my Friends
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 fome Repute for Profe;
And till they drove me out of Date,
Could maul a Minifter of State:
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 Reafon to deteft 'em?
To all my Foes, dear Fortune, fend
Thy Gifts, but never to my
I tamely can endure the first,
But, this with Envy makes me burst.
THUS much may ferve by way of Proem, Proceed we therefore to our Poem.
THE Time is not remote, when I
Muft by the Courfe of Nature dye:
When I foresee my special Friends,
Will try to find their private Ends:
Tho' it is hardly understood,
Which way my Death can do them good;
Yet, thus methinks, I hear 'em 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,
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;
Forgets the Place where laft he din'd:
Plyes you with Stories o'er and o'er,
He told them fifty Times before.
How does he fancy we can fit,
To hear his out-of-fashion'd Wit?
But he takes up with younger Fokes,
Who for his Wine will bear his Jokes :
Faith, he must make his Stories fhorter,
Or change his Comrades once a Quarter:
In half the Time, he talks them round;
There must another Sett be found.
FOR Poetry, he's paft his Prime, He takes an Hour to find a Rhime:
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