Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/138

128 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 rul'd, for aught appears, He might have liv'd 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, "The dean is dead." And lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say; then let him rot; I'm glad the medals were forgot. I promis'd 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 died without his shoes," Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news: O, 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