Yet thus, methinks, I hear ’em speak: 
“See, how the Dean begins to break! 
Poor gentleman, he droops apace! 
You plainly find it in his face. 
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he’s dead. 
Besides, his memory decays: 
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind: 
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?”—­