"We must confess, his case was nice; But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived these twenty years; For, when we open'd him, we found, That all his vital parts were sound." From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court,[6] "the Dean is dead." Kind Lady Suffolk,[7] in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd. He's dead, you say; why, let him rot: I'm glad the medals[8] were forgot. I promised him, I own; but when? I only was a princess then; But now, as consort of a king, You know, 'tis quite a different thing." Now Chartres,[9] at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: "Why, is he dead without his shoes," Cries Bob,[10] "I'm sorry for the news: O, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will![11] Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke[12] were dead!" Now Curll[13] his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.[14] He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters:[15] 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 shrug, and cry, "I'm sorry--but we all must die!" Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies: For how can stony 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 screen, When death approach'd, to stand between: The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling. My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)[16] 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 wou'd take it ill, If he shou'd 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 miss'd, Than if he never did exist. Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo! Departed:--and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date.