Works

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increas'd with years.
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room:
And looking grave, "You must," says he,
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."

"With you, and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cry'd:
"Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd:
My thoughts on other matters go,
This is my wedding-night, you know."

What more he urg'd I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a little sprite,
Said, "Mark you well this heedless wight,
Attend him close where'er he goes,
And whisper thrice within his ear,
Before the next return of May,
'Prepare ye to receive your pay.'"

The sprite obey'd, and Dobson's ear
Thrice echoed out the words so clear,
"Prepare ye to receive your pay!"
But Dobson careless went his way.

He chaffer'd, then he bought and sold,
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
He neither thought on death nor peace.

And now, one night, in musing mood,
As by his fire-side Dobson stood,
He heard a hollow voice pronounce,
"Prepare ye to receive your pay!"

"So soon returned!" old Dobson cries,
"'Tis six-and-thirty years at least
Since I was first warned to prepare,
And yet I'm hale and hearty here."

"No matter," quoth the voice again,
"Six-and-thirty years or ten,
The time is come, the debt's to pay,
For what you borrow'd yesterday."

In vain he plead, in vain he pray'd,
The sprite no longer was delay'd,
But bore him straight, and set him down
Before the bar of Pluto's throne.

The Judge, severe and awful, frown'd,
And bad the trembling culprit sound,
What right he had to live so long,
Or who his bail was grown so strong.

Old Dobson trembled, shook, and stare'd,
And then in faltering tone declar'd,
That he had liv'd by honest toil,
And never once had broke the laws,
That he had paid his debts with care,
And always gone to church and prayers.

"Not guilty, then," the judge replies,
"Since I can find no other cause,
But guilty you must be of life,
And that's a crime I can't forgive.

"So take him, Satan, lead him hence,
And punish him according to his deserts."
Old Dobson vanished in a trice,
And so concludes the tale of Dobson's warning.

Moral

Remember then, ye living men,
How near you are your latter end,
And let not time slip thoughtlessly away,
But live each day as if it were your last.

There are several versions of “The Three Warnings”. The 1798 published version above is the most polished, complete and widely read. One of the major differences between the early and later texts is the ending. In the early versions Dobson is carried to hell by Satan, whereas in the published version he simply disappears. This revision introduces a more ambiguous conclusion. The tone also shifts: the early versions are sharper and more satirical, while the published text is more sombre and reflective, giving the poem a more serious and contemplative character.

Footnotes

1. A popular hotel in Bath during the 18th century. It was located on the corner of Broad Street and the High Street and was known for its elegant accommodations. It no longer exists.↩︎
2. John Bartlett, comp. (1820-1905). Familiar Quotations, 9th ed. 1901.↩︎
3. 1766 pp. 74-80.↩︎
4. Kidderminster: John Gower, 1792.↩︎