And when it cleared off again, I grieve to be outdone by Gay proem; To all my foes, dear Fortune, send That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him till he's dead. By J-s we could not see them then, How does he fancy we can sit But he takes up with younger folks, "For poetry he's past his prime: He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. Last year we thought him strong and hale ; In such a case they talk in tropes, 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!" Would please them better, than to tell That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well." Then he, who prophesied the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: Not see them then, says Pat M'Hone, Not see them when the cloud was gone? "You know I always fear'd the worst, Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain What gave me ease, and how I slept! Behold the fatal day arrive! The news through half the town is run. Now Grub-Street wits are all employ'd With elegies the town is cloy'd ; |