But rather than they should excel, Her End, when Emulation miffes, Vain human Kind! Fantastick Race! I have no Title to aspire; Yet, when you fink, I feem the higher : But, with a Sigh, I wish it mine: 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 JOHN, as well as + PULTNEY, knows, That I had fome Repute for Profe; And till they drove me out of Date, Could maul a Minister of State: If they have mortify'd my Pride, And made me throw my Pen afide If with fuch Talents Heav'n hath bleft 'em, Have I not Reafon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 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, He recollects not what he fays; 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, "He's older than he would be reckon'd, "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, No Enemy can match a Friend; (When daily Howd'ye's come of course, i « You "You know, I always fear'd the worst, Yet fhou'd fome Neighbour feel a Pain, 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. |