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:

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 further mention of the dean;

Who now, alas! no more is miss'd
Than if he never did exist.

--

Where's now this favorite 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His kind of wit is out of date.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;
Ile died a year ago."-
""The same,"

He searches all the shops 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.

2

Pray do but give me leave to show 'em;
Here's Colley Cibber's birthday 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:
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.

Next, here's sir Robert's vindication,'
And Mr. Henley's last oration.2
The hawkers have not got them yet:

Your honor please to buy a set?

66

Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition,

'Tis read by every politician:

The country members, when in town,

To all their boroughs send them down;"
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart;
Those maids of honor who can read
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The reverend author's good intention
Has been rewarded with a pension.1
He does an honor to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester,
That Moses was a grand impostor;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he has not got a mitre!"

Suppose me dead! and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favor some and some without,
One quite indifferent in the cause
My character impartial draws;

66

The dean, if we believe report,
Was never ill received at court.

As for his works in verse and prose,

I own myself no judge of those;

Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em:
But this I know, all people bought 'em.
As with a moral view design'd

To cure the vices of mankind:

Walpole had a set of party scribblers, who did nothing but write in his defence. Henley, a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, formed a new conventicle. which he called an Oratory.

Wolston, a clergyman, who, for want of bread, in several treatises, in the most blasphemous manner, attempted to turn our Savior's miracles into ridicule.

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:
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 further mention of the dean;

Who now, alas! no more is miss'd

Than if he never did exist.

Where's now this favorite of Apollo?
Departed and his works must follow:
Must undergo the common fate;
Ilis 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;
Ile died a year ago."-"The same,"

He searches all the shops in vain.

66

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.

1

2

Pray do but give me leave to show 'em;
Here's Colley Cibber's birthday 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:
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.

Next, here's sir Robert's vindication,'
And Mr. Henley's last oration.2

The hawkers have not got them yet:

Your honor please to buy a set?

"Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition,

'Tis read by every politician:

The country members, when in town,

To all their boroughs send them down;"
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart;
Those maids of honor who can read
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The reverend author's good intention
Has been rewarded with a pension.1
He does an honor to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester,
That Moses was a grand impostor;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he has not got a mitre!"

Suppose me dead! and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favor some and some without,
One quite indifferent in the cause
My character impartial draws;

"The dean, if we believe report,

Was never ill received at court.
As for his works in verse and prose,

I own myself no judge of those;

Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em:
But this I know, all people bought 'em.
As with a moral view design'd

To cure the vices of mankind:

Walpole had a set of party scribblers, who did nothing but write in his defence. Henley, a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the established church, formed a new conventicle. which he called an Oratory.

3

Wolston, a clergyman, who, for want of bread, in several treatises, in the most blasphemous manner, attempted to turn our Savior's miracles into ridicule.

His vein, ironically grave,

Expos'd the fool and lash'd the knave.
To steal a hint was never known,
But what he writ was all his own.

"He never thought an honor done him
Because a duke was proud to own him;
Would rather slip aside and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes;
Despised the fools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
No persons held in admiration;
Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs,
He gave himself no haughty airs:
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends;
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatterers; no allies in blood
But succor'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success;
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who but for him had been unknown.'

"With princes kept a due decorum,
But never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just,
In princes never put thy trust:
And would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish senate if you named,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair LIBERTY was all his cry,
For her he stood prepared to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft exposed his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head;

But not a traitor could be found

Could sell him for six hundred pound.

"Had he but spared his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men:
But power was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued not a groat:

Dr. Delany, in the close of his eighth letter, after having enumerated the friends with whom the dean lived in the greatest intimacy, very handsomely applies this passage to himself.

In 1713 the queen was prevailed with, by an address from the house of lords in England, to publish a proclamation, promising 3007. to discover the author of a pamphlet called "The Public Spirit of the Whigs:" and in Ireland, in the year 1724, lord Carteret, at his first coming into the government, was prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward of 300l. to any person who