Classic Poem

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 ruled, for ought appears,
He might have lived these twenty years:
For when we opened him we found,
That all his vital parts were sound.'

From Dublin soon to London spread,
'Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead. . . .