Forgets the place where last he din'd; Plyes 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'd 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 decay'd, 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 reckon'd, 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!" Then 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!_") Wou'd please 'em better, than to tell, That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." Then he, who prophecy'd the best, Approves his foresight 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 lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over. Yet, shou'd 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 sniv'llers round my bed. My good companions, never fear; For though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verify'd 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." Before the Passing-bell begun, The news thro' half the town has run. "O! 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 use! a perfect whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all--but first he died. 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 ev'ry paper To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5] The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame: