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In such a case, they talk in tropes,
Yet should some neighbour feel a pain
My good companions, never fear ;
Behold the fatal day arrive ! ·
Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is 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 public uses.” • To public uses ! there's a whim ! What had the public 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 Grub-street 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 ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived 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 promised him, I own; but when ?
Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains :
Here shift the scene, to represent
St John himself will scarce forbear
Indifference, clad in wisdom's guise,
The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortured with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd, to stand between : The screen removed, 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 engaged to-morrow night : My Lady Club will take it ill If he should fail her at quadrille. He loved 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,
THE CITY SHOWER. CAREFUL observers may foretel the hour (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower. While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more ; Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine; You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in