My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learned 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 further mention of the Dean, Who now, alas! no more is missed, 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 Departed:--and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date.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, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name; He died a year ago.'--'The same.' He searches all the shop in vain. 'Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: I sent them, with a load of books, Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past: The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff; But spick and span I have enough. Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr Henley's last oration. The hawkers have not got them yet; Your honour please to buy a set? 'Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; 'Tis read by every politician: The country-members, when in town, To all their boroughs send them down: You never met a thing so smart; The courtiers have them all by heart: Those maids of honour who can read, Are taught to use them for their creed. The reverend author's good intention Hath been rewarded with a pension: He doth an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, That Moses was a grand impostor; That all his miracles were cheats, Performed as jugglers do their feats: The church had never such a writer; A shame he hath not got a mitre!' Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without; One, quite indifferent in the cause, My character impartial draws: