Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/140

 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 engag'd to-morrow night: My lady Club will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He lov'd 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 Departed: — and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date. 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