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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His kind of wit is out of date.

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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 queán
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.

Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through)
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go :
Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell
What street they sail'd from by their sight and

smell. They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, From Smithfield or St 'Pulchre's shape their

course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge. Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and

blood, Drown's puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in

mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down

the flood.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

In ancient times, as story teils,
The Saints would often leave their cells,

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