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! Fantastick 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 to me an Ufurpation.

I have no Title to aspire;

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 fix;
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 Friend, Who dares to Irony pretend;

N 2

Which

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 JOHN, as well as + PULTNEY, knows, That I had fome Repute for Profe; And till they drove me out of Date, Could maul a Minister of State: If they have mortify'd my Pride, And made me throw my Pen afide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 Friend:
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 die : When I foresee my fpecial Friends, Will try to find their private Ends; Tho' it is hardly understood,

Which Way my Death can do them good;

* Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.

+ Made Earl of Bath in the Year 1742.

Yet

Yet thus, methinks, I hear them 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 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 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 shorter,
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 past his Prime, He takes an Hour to find a Rhime: His Fire is out, his Wit decay'd, His Fancy funk, his Mufe a Jade, I'd have him throw away his Pen; But there's no talking to fome 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. "His Stomach 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."

Then hug themselves, and reason thus ; "It is not yet so bad with us."

In fuch a Case they talk in Tropes,
And, by their Fears exprefs 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'ye's come of course,
And Servants answer, worse and worse)
Wou'd please 'em better than to tell,
That, GoD be prais'd, the Dean is well,
Then he who prophecy'd the best,
Approves his Forefight to the reft;

i

« You

"You know, I always fear'd the worst,
"And often told you fo at firft:"
He'd rather chufe, that I fhould die,
Than his Prediction prove a Lye,
Not one foretells I fhall recover;
But, all agree, to give me over.

Yet fhou'd fome Neighbour feel a Pain,
Juft in the Parts, where I complain;
How many a Meffage would he fend?
What hearty Pray'rs that I should mend?
Enquire what Regimen I kept;
What gave me Ease, and how I flept?
And more lament, when I was dead,
Than all the Sniv'llers round my Bed,

My good Companions, never fear, For though you may mistake a Year; Though your Prognosticks run too fast, They must be verify'd at last.

"Behold the fatal Day arrive! "How is the Dean? He's just alive. "Now the departing Pray'r is read: "He hardly breathes. The Dean is dead. "Before the Paffing-Bell begun,

The News thro' half the Town has run.