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Our Equal rais'd above our Size.
15 I love
my Friend

as well as you:
But why should he obstruct my View?
Then, let me have the higher Poft ;
Suppose it but an Inch at most

If in Battle


should find
? One, whom you love of all Mankind,

Had some heroic A&tion done,
A Champion kill'd, or Trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,

Would you not wish his Laurel cropt? 65 Dear honek Ned is in the Gout,

Lies rack'd with Pain, and you without :
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the Case is not your own!

What Poet would not mourn to fee
His Brother write as well as he ?
But rather than they should excel,
He'd with his Rivals all in Hell.

Her End when Emulation misses,
She turns to Envy, Stings and Histes :
The strongest Friendthip yields to Pride,
Unless the Odds be on our Side.

Vain Human-kind ! fantaftic Race !
Thy various Follies who can
Self-love, Ambition, Envy, Pride,
Their Envy in our Hearts divide.
Give others Riches, Power and Station,
'Tis all on me an Usurpation.
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 Sense, than I can do in fix,
It gives me such a jealous Fit ;
I cry, Pox take him and his Wit!
I grieve to be outdone by-Gay
In my own humoutous, biting Way,
Arbuthnot is no more my Friend,
Who dares to Irony pretenda


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Which I was born to introduce ;
Refin'd it first, and shew'd its Use.
St. John, as well as Pultney, knows,
That I had some Repute for Prose;
And, 'till they drove me out of Date,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 aside ;
If with such Talents Heav'n hath bleft 'emj
Have I not Reason to deteft 'em?

To all my Foes, dear Fortune, send
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 Course of Nature die ;
When I foresee my special 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 drops apace ;
You plainly find it in his Face;
“ That old Vertigo in his Head
“ Will never leave him, till he's dead.
“ Besides, his Memory decays ;
“ He recollects not what he says:
• He cannot call his Friend to mind;
« Forgets the place where last he din’d:


with Stories o'er and o'er ; “ He told them fifty Times before. “ How does he fancy we can sit " To hear his out-of-Fashion Wit? “ But he takes up with younger Folks, “ 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 Set be found,

46 Plies


[6] « For Poetry he's past his Prime; « He takes an Hour to make a Rhime: “ His Fire is out, his Wit decay'd; « His Fancy funk, his Muse a Jade, “ I'd have him throw away his Pen; « But there's no talking to come Men."

And then, his Tenderness appears, By adding largely to my Years: - He's older than he would be reckond, « And well remembers Cbarles the Second;

He hardly drinks a Pint of Wine ; “ And that, I doubt, is no good Sign, a His Stomuch too begins to fail: « Last Year we thought him Strong and Hale; “ But now he's quite another Thing; 6. I wish he may hold out 'till Spring: Then hug themselves, and reason thus ; Is It is not quite so bad with us.

In such a Cafe they talk in Tropes,
And by their Fears express 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 How d'y's come of Course,
And Servants answer," worse and worfe!"
Would please them better, than to tell,
That, (God be prais d), the Dean is well;
Then, he who prophefyd the best,
Approves the Judgment to the rest;
« You know, I always fear'd the worst,
& And often told you so at first,
He'd rather chuse that I should die,
Than his Prediction prove a Lle:
Not one foretels, I shall recovery,
But all agree to give me over..

Yet, should some Neighbour feel a Pain
Just in the Part where I complain,
How many a Message would he fend?
What hearty Pray’rs, that I should mend ?
Enquire what Regimen I kept ;
What gave me Ease, and how I lept:

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« I know

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


Bed." 410
My good Companions, never fear;
For, though you may mistake a Year,
Though your Prognostics run too fast,

must be verify'd at last.
Behold the fatal Day arive !
How is the Dean?" He's juft alive,"
Now the departing Pray' is read;
He hardly breathes.----The Dean is dead.

the Palling-Bell's begun,
The News thro' half the Town has run,
u Oh! may we all for Death prepare!--
“ What has he left, and who's his Heir ?

more than what the News is;
'Tis all bequeath?d ta public Ufeso
« To public Uses! there's a Whim !
« What has the Public done for him?
“ Mere Envy, Avarice and Prides
“ He gave it all ----- but first he dy'de
" And had the Dean, in all the, Nation,
“ No worthy Friend ; no poor Relation
“ So ready to do Strangers, Good,
“ Forgetting his own Flelh and Blood ?"

Now GRUBSTREBT Wits are all employd,
With Elegies the Town is cloy'd:
Some Paragraph in every Paper.

its To curse the Dean, or, blefs the Drapier, The Doctors, tender of their Fame Wisely on me lay all the Blame. We must confess his Cafe was nice ; “ But he would never take Advicę.

! “ Had he been ruld, for ought appears, “ He might have liv'd these twenty Years ; “ For, when we opend him, we found, « That all his vital Parts were found", From Dublin, soon to London {pread, *Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead. And Lady S**** in the Spleen Runs laughing up to tell the **** *** so gracious, mild and good, Cries, “Is he gone -.--'Tis Time he should

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Now Chartres, at * * * Levee, Tells, with a Sneer, the Tidings heavy ; Why, if he dy'd without his Shoes, Cries * * *

" I'm sorry for the News ;
Oh, were the Wretch but living still, 1857
“ And in his place my good friend Will !
" Or had a Mitre on his Head,
“ Provided Bolingbroke were dead !

Now Curl his Shop from Rubbish drains
Three genuine Tomes of Swift's Remains ! ?
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber
He'll treat me as he does my Betters,
Publish my Will, my Life, my Letters ;
Revive the Libels, born to die ;
Which Pope must bear, as well as I.

Here shift the Scene, to represent,
How those I love my Death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a Month; and Gay
A Week; and Arbuthnot a Day.
St. John himself, will scarce forbear
To bite his Pen, and drop a Tear.
The rest will give a Shrag, and cry,
I'm sorry ;----but we all must die !

Indifference, clad in Wisdom's Guise,
All Fortitude of Mind supplies :
For how can ftony Bowels melt,
In those, who never Pity felt ?
When we are lash'd, they kiss the Rod,
Resigning to the Will of God.

The Fools, my Juniors by a Year,
Are tortur'd with Suspense and Fear ;
Who wisely thought my Age a Skreen,
When Death approach'd, to stand between :
The Skreen remov'd, their Hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without difl'embling.

My :

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