"In exile,[35] with a steady heart,
He spent his life's declining part;
Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.
Alas, poor Dean! his only scope
Was to be held a misanthrope.
This into gen'ral odium drew him,
Which if he liked, much good may't do him.
His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
But discontent against the times:
For had we made him timely offers
To raise his post, or fill his coffers,
Perhaps he might have truckled down,
Like other brethren of his gown.
For party he would scarce have bled:
I say no more--because he's dead.
What writings has he left behind?
I hear, they're of a different kind;
A few in verse; but most in prose--
Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose;--
All scribbled in the worst of times,
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes,
To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her,
As never fav'ring the Pretender;
Or libels yet conceal'd from sight,
Against the court to show his spite;
Perhaps his travels, part the third;
A lie at every second word--
Offensive to a loyal ear:
But not one sermon, you may swear."
His friendships there, to few confined
Were always of the middling kind;[36]
No fools of rank, a mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed:
Where titles give no right or power,[37]
And peerage is a wither'd flower;
He would have held it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.
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