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In fuch a cafe 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 profefs,

The merit of a lucky guess

(When daily how d'y's come of course,

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And fervants anfwer, "worfe and worse !") Wou'd please them better, than to tell, That, God be prais'd! the dean is well. Then he who prophefy'd the best,

Approves his judgment to the rest:

"You know, I always fear'd the worst,
"And often told you fo at first."
He'd rather choose that I should dye,
Than his prediction prove a lye.
Not one foretels I fhall recover;

But all agree to give me over.

Yet should some neighbour feel a pain

Juft in the parts where I complain;

How many a meffage would he fend?

What hearty prayers that I should mend?

Enquire what regimen I kept;

What gave me ease, and how I flept?
And more lament when I was dead
Than all the fnivelers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear;

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Though your prognofticks run too faft,
They must be verify'd at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!
How is the dean? he's juft alive.
Now the departing prayer is read;
He hardly breathes-The dean is dead.
Before the paffing-bell 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?

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I know no more, than what the news is;

'Tis all bequeath'd to publick uses.

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To publick uses! there's a whim!

What had the publick done for him?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride:

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To curfe the dean, or blejs 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.

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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 spread, 175
'Tis told at court, the dean is dead;
And Lady Suffolk * in the spleen
Runs laughing up to tell **

** so gracious, mild and good,

Cries," Is he gone! 'tis time he shou'd.

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Now Chartres +, at Sir Robert's ‡ levée,
Tells with a fneer the tidings heavy :
Why if he dy'd without his shoes,
(Cries Bob) I'm forry for the news:

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"Mrs. Howard, then countess of Suffolk, and one of the bedchamber to the late queen."

+"Colonel Francis' Charteris,' whofe character may be feen in an epitaph written by Dr. Arbuthnot."

Sir Robert Walpole, prime minister, afterward earl of Orford.

Oh! were the wretch but living ftill,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke was dead

Now Curl his shop from rubbish drains : Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.+ He'll treat me as does my betters,

Publish my will, my life, my letters ; 200

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 reft will give a fhrug, and cry

"I'm forry, but we all muft die."

Indifference clad in wisdom's guife

All fortitude of mind fupplies :

*Mr. Pulteney.

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"An infamous bookfeller, who published things in the dean's name which he never wrote."

See their characters in the Dunciad.

For how can ftony bowels melt

In those, who never pity felt?

When we are lafht, they kiss'd the rod,
Refigning to the will of God.

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The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with fufpence and fear; Who wifely thought my age a fcreen, When death approacht, to ftand between; The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without diffembling. My female friends, whofe tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps :

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"The dean is dead (pray, what is trumps?) "Then, Lord have mercy on his foul.

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(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)

"Six deans, they say, muft bear the pall.

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(I wish I knew what king to call.) "Madam, your husband will attend "The fun'ral of fo good a friend. "No, madam, 'tis a fhocking fight; "And he's engag'd to-morrow night:

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My lady Club wou'd take it ill

"If he fhould fail at her quadrill.

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"He lov'd the dean, (I lead a heart)
"But dearest friends, they fay, muft part.
"His time was come; he ran his race;
"We hope he's in a better place."

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