to say,
But to request thou’lt instantly away,
And leave the duties of thy present post,
To some well-skill’d retainer in a host: 
Doubtless he’ll carefully thy place supply,
And o’er his grace’s horses have an eye. 
While thou, who slunk thro’ postern more than once,
Dost by that means avoid a crowd of duns,
And, crossing o’er the Thames at Temple Stairs,
Leav’st Phillips with good words to cheat their ears.

[Footnote 1:  Allusion to a pamphlet written against Steele, under the name of Toby (Edward King), Abel Roper’s kinsman and shopman.]

[Footnote 2:  Dennis had a notion, that he was much dreaded by the French for his writings, and actually fled from the coast, on hearing that some unknown strangers had approached the town, where he was residing, never doubting that they were the messengers of Gallic vengeance.  At the time of the peace of Utrecht, he was anxious for the introduction of a clause for his special protection, and was hardly consoled by the Duke of Marlborough’s assurances, that he did not think such a precaution necessary in his own case, although he had been almost as obnoxious to France as Mr. Dennis.—­Scott.]

[Footnote 3:  Sir Thomas Pilkington, a leading member of the Skinners’ Company, and a staunch Whig.  He was elected Lord Mayor for the third time In 1690, and died in 1691.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 4:  A comedy by Steele.]

[Footnote 5:  See the Examiner, “Prose Works,” ix, 171 n., for the grounds of this charge.—­W.  E. B.]

IN SICKNESS

WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, 1714

Soon after the author’s coming to live in Ireland, upon the Queen’s death.[1]—­Swift.

’Tis true—­then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline? 
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither loved nor known? 
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul’s concern: 
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse. 
Removed from kind Arbuthnot’s aid,
Who knows his art, but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for me
Before his credit, or his fee. 
Some formal visits, looks, and words,
What mere humanity affords,
I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the sick for pay,
Can act as decently as they: 
But no obliging, tender friend,
To help at my approaching end. 
My life is now a burthen grown
To others, ere it be my own. 
  Ye formal weepers for the sick,
In your last offices be quick;
And spare my absent friends the grief
To hear, yet give me no relief;
Expired to-day, entomb’d to-morrow,
When known, will save a double sorrow.

[Footnote 1:  Queen Anne died 1st August, 1714.]

THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES[1]