left any orders for a Funeral Sermon? and where he is to be laid? and
whether his grave is to be plain or bricked?"

"Why, Sirrah!" says I, "you know me well enough. You know I am not dead;
and how dare you affront me after this manner!"

"Alack a day, Sir," replies the fellow, "why it is in print, and the
whole Town knows you are dead. Why, there's Mr. WHITE the joiner is but
fitting screws to your coffin! He'll be here with it in an instant. He
was afraid you would have wanted it before this time."

"Sirrah! sirrah!" saith I, "you shall know to-morrow to your cost that I
am alive! and alive like to be!"

"Why, 'tis strange, Sir," says he, "you should make such a secret of your
death to us that are your neighbours. It looks as if you had a design to
defraud the Church of its dues: and let me tell you, for one who has
lived so long by the heavens, that is unhandsomely done!"

"Hist! hist!" says another rogue that stood by him, "away, Doctor! into
your flannel gear as fast as you can! for here is a whole pack of dismals
coming to you with their black equipage; how indecent will it look for you
to stand frightening folks at your window, when you should have been in
your coffin this three hours!"

In short, what with Undertakers, Embalmers, Joiners, Sextons, and your
_Elegy_ hawkers _upon a late practitioner in Physic and Astrology_; I got
not one wink of sleep that night, nor scarce a moment's rest ever since.

Now, I doubt not but this villanous Squire has the impudence to assert
that these are entirely strangers to him; he, good man! knoweth nothing
of the matter! and honest ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, I warrant you! is more a man
of honour than to be an accomplice with a pack of rascals that walk the
streets on nights, and disturb good people in their beds. But he is out,
if he thinks the whole World is blind! for there is one JOHN PARTRIDGE
can smell a knave as far as Grub street, although he lies in the most
exalted garret, and writeth himself "Squire"! But I will keep my temper!
and proceed in the Narration.

I could not stir out of doors for the space of three months after this;
but presently one comes up to me in the street: "Mr. PARTRIDGE, that
coffin you were last buried in, I have not yet been paid for."

"Doctor!" cries another dog, "How do you think people can live by making
graves for nothing? Next time you die, you may even toll out the bell
yourself, for NED!"

A third rogue tips me by the elbow, and won