15 I love

We all behold with envious Eyes
Our Equal rais'd above our Size.
Friend as well as you:
my
But why should he obftruct my View?
Then, let me have the higher Poft;
Suppofe it but an Inch at most.
If in a Battle you should find
20 One, whom you love of all Mankind,
Had fome heroic Action done,*
A Champion kill'd, or Trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,

Would you not with his Laurel cropt? 25 Dear honek Ned is in the Gout,

Lies rack'd with Pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the Cafe 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 miffes,
She turns to Envy, Stings and Hiffes:
The strongest Friendship yields to Pride,
Unless the Odds be on our Side.

Vain Human-kind! fantaftic Race!
Thy various Follies who can trace?
Self-love, Ambition, Envy, Pride,
Their Envy in our Hearts divide.
Give others Riches, Power and Station,
"Tis all on me an Ufurpation.

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 Senfe, than I can do in fix,
It gives me fuch a jealous Fit;
I cry, Pox take him and his Wit !
I grieve to be outdone by-Gay
In my own humourous, biting Way.
Arbuthnot is no more my Friend,
Who dares to Irony pretend:

Which

Which I was born to introduce;
Refin'd it first, and shew'd its Ufe.
St. John, as well as Pultney, knows,
That I had fome 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And, 'till they drove me out of Date,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 afide;
If with fuch Talents Heav'n hath bleft 'em,
Have I not Reason to deteft 'em?

To all my Foes, dear Fortune, fend
Thy Gifts; but never to my Friend:
I tamely can endure the firft;

But this with Envy makes me 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 fpeak:
"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.
"Befides, his Memory decays;
"He recollects not what he says:
"He cannot call his Friend 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-Fafhion Wit?

"But he takes up with younger Folks,
"Who for his Wine, will bear his Jokes.
"Faith! he muft make his Stories fhorter,
"Or change his Comrades once a Quarter:
"In half the Time, he talks them round;
"There must another Set be found,
E 3

55

For

"For Poetry he's paft his Prime;
"He takes an Hour to make 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, his 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 Stomuch 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 themfelves, and reafon thus:
"It is not quite 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 profefs
The Merit of a lucky Guefs:

σε

When daily How d'y's come of Course,
And Servants answer, "worfe and worfe!"
Would please them better, than to tell,
That, (God be prais'd), the Dean is well;
Then, he who prophefy'd the beft,
Approves the Judgment to the reft:
"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 Lie :
Not one foretels,. I fhall recover;
But all agree to give me over..

Yet, fhould fome Neighbour feel a Pain

Juft in the Part 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 Eafe, and how I flept:

[7]
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 Prognoftics run too faft,
They must be verify'd at last.

Behold the fatal Day arive!

How is the Dean?"He's juft alive,"
Now the departing Pray'r is read;
He hardly breathes,----The Dean is dead...
Before the Paffing-Bell's 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 public Ufes
"To public Ufes! there's a Whim!
"What has the Public done for him ?»
"Mere Envy, Avarice and Prides
"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,

140

145

150

160

"Forgetting his own Flesh and Blood?".

Now GRUBSTREET Wits are all employ'd

With Elegies the Town is cloy'd:

Some Paragraph in every Paper

To curfe 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 fpread,
Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead.
And Lady S**** in the Spleen
Runs laughing up to tell the ****
*** fo gracious, mild and good,

Cries, Is he gone 'Tis Time he should.

Now Chartres, at *** Levee, Tells, with a Sneer, the Tidings heavy; Why, if he dy'd without his Shoés, Cries ***"I'm forry for the News; "Oh, were the Wretch but living still, "And in his Place my good friend Will "Or had a Mitre on his Head, "Provided Bolingbroke were dead!

185

Now Curl his Shop from Rubbish drains;
Three genuine Tomes of Swift's Remains! 1
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 muft bear, as well as I.

Here shift the Scene, to reprefent,
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 fcarce forbear
To bite his Pen, and drop a Tear.
The reft will give a Shrug, and cry,
"I'm forry ;----but we all muft die!
Indifference, clad in Wisdom's Guife,
All Fortitude of Mind fupplies :
For how can ftony Bowels melt,
In those, who never Pity felt?
When we are lafh'd, they kifs the Rod,
Refigning to the Will of God.

The Fools, my Juniors by a Year,

Are tortur'd with Sufpenfe and Fear ;
Who wifely thought my Age a Skreen,
When Death approach'd, to ftand between :

The Skreen remov'd, their Hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without diffembling.