For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times,
“Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose days are sped? -
What! he, himself!- and is old
Dibble
dead?”
His eightieth year he reach’d, still undecay d,
And rectors five to one close vault convey’d:-
But he is gone; his care and skill I lose,
And gain a mournful subject for my Muse:
His masters lost, he’d oft in turn deplore,