If with fuch Talents Heav'n hath blest 'em,
Have I not reason to deteft 'em?

To all my Foes dear Fortune fend Thy Gifts, but never to my

I tamely can endure the first;

Friend

But this with Envy makes be burst.

:

Thus much may serve by way of Proem; Proceed we therefore to our Poem.

The Time is not remote when I
Muft by the Course of Nature die;
When I foresee, my fpecial Friends
Will try to find their private Ends.
And tho' 'tis hardly understood,
Which way my Death can do them good;
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 says:
He cannot call his Friends to mind;
Forgets the Place where laft he din'd:

Plies you with Stories o'er and o'er ;
He told 'em fifty times before.
How does he fancy, we can fit
To hear his out-of-fafhon Wit?
But he takes up with younger Folks,
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 muft 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 Muse a Jade.j 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

Then hug themselves, and reafon thus:
It is not yet fo bad with us.

In fuch a Cafe 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'y's come of Course,

And Servants answer, "worse and worfe!"
Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell,
That, God be prais'd, the Dean is well.
Then he, who prophefy'd the best,
Approves the Judgment to the reft:
"You know, I always fear'd the worst,
"And often told you fo at first.

He'd rather choose that I fhould die,
Than his Prediction prove a Lie :
Not one foretels, I fhall recover;
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 fhould mend?
Enquire what Regimen I kept;

What gave me Eafe, and how I flept:

And

And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the Snivelers round my Bed.

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

Behold the fatal Day arrive!
How is the Dean? he's juft alive.
Now the departing Prayer is read;
He hardly breathes. The Dean is dead.

Before the Paffing-Bell begun,

The News thro' half the Town has run.
Oh! 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 Ufes.
To publick Ufes! there's a Whim!
What had the Publick done for him?
Mere Envy, Avarice, and Pride:
He gave it all- but first he dy'd.

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

Now Grubftreet 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,
Wifely on me lay all the Blame.
We must confefs his Cafe was nice;
But he would never take Advice.
Had he been rul'd, for ought appears,
He might have liv'd these twenty
Years:
For, when we open'd him, we found,
That all his vital Parts were found.
From Dublin foon to London (pread,
'Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead.
And Lady S in the Spleen
Runs laughing up to tell ***.
** so gracious, mild and good
Cries, "is he gone! 'tis time he shou’d.