Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. "Oh! 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 uses! there's a whim! What had the public done for him ? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all-but first he dy'd. 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 every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame. "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, "The Dean is dead." And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the Queen. The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries," Is he gone? 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say; then let him rot. I'm glad the medals were forgot.

I promised him, I own; but when?
I only was the princess then :
But now as consort of the King,
You know, 'tis quite another thing."

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee,
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy :
"Why, if he dy'd without his shoes,"
Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news :
Oh, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,

Provided Bolingbroke were dead !"

Now Curll 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. He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters; 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 tortured 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: (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 farther mention of the Dean,
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
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 birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck, upon the Queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend.

THE CITY SHOWER.

CAREFUL observers may foretel the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more;
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;

You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.

A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled
wings,

A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope :
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean :
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life;
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust,

'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.

Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade ?
Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain !
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.