The time is not remote when I Must by the course of nature die; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends: And, though '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. Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind; Forgets the place where last he dined; Plies you 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. 'For poetry, he's past his prime: He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decayed, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen;-- But there's no talking to some men!' And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years: 'He's older than he would be reckoned, 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: Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring!' They hug themselves, and reason thus: 'It is not yet so bad with us!' In such a case, 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'ye's come of course, And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!') Would please them better, than to tell, That, 'God be praised, the Dean is well.' Then he who prophesied the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: 'You know I always feared the worst, And often told you so at first.' He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his predictions prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over. Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain; How many a message would he send! What hearty prayers that I should mend! Inquire what regimen I kept; What gave me ease, and how I slept; And more lament when I was dead, Than all the snivellers round my bed. My good companions, never fear; For, though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verified at last. Behold the fatal day arrive! 'How is the Dean?'--'He's just alive.' Now the departing prayer is read; He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead.