“I know no more than what the news is;
’Tis all bequeath’d to public uses.”—­
“To public use! a perfect whim! 
What had the public done for him? 
Mere envy, avarice, and pride: 
He gave it all—­but first he died. 
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 ev’ry paper
To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.[5]
  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,[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: