Old age and dying according to Swift

Swift is a true gem in our literary history.

clipped from www.todayinliterature.com   Swift at the End   Yet, thus methinks, I bear 'em speak; See, how the Dean begins to break: Poor Gentleman, he droops apace, You plainly find it in his Face: That old Vertigo in his Head, Will never leave him, till he's dead: Besides, his Memory decays, He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his Friends to Mind; Forgets the Place where last he din'd: Plyes you with Stories o'er and o'er, He told them fifty Times before.... For Poetry, he's past his Prime, He takes an Hour to find a Rhime: His Fire is out, his Wit decay'd, His Fancy sunk, his Muse a Jade. I'd have him throw away his Pen; But there's no talking to some Men....