Here nail'd, a terror to his kind,
My fowls fhall future fafety find;
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barns refufe fat the breed.

Friend, fays the Sage, the doom is wife;
For public good the murd'rer dies.
But if thefe tyrants of the air
Demand a sentence fo fevere,
Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feafts regale his hours!
O, impudence of pow'r and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou perhaps, carniv'rous sinner,
Hadft pullets yesterday for dinner!

Hold! cried the Clown, with paffion heated,

Shall kites and men alike be treated?
When Heaven the world with creatures ftor'd,
Man was ordain'd their fov'reign lord.

Thus tyrants boaft, the Sage replied,
Whofe murders fpring from power and pride.
Own then this manlike kite is flain
Thy greater lux'ry to fuftain;

For

Petty rogues fubmit to fate, "That great ones may enjoy their state.”

159. Fable XXXVII. The Farmer's Wife and the Raven.

WHY are thofe tears? why droops your head?

Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worfe difgrace betide;
Hath no one fince his death applied?

Alas! you know the cause too well:
The falt is fpilt, to me it fell.
Then, to contribute to my lofs,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were fafe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next poft fome fatal news thall tell.
God fend my Cornish friends be well!
Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears:
Let not thy ftomach be fufpended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And when the butler clears the table,
For thy deffert I'll read
my fable.
Betwixt her fwagging panniers load
A farmer's wife to market rode,
And jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;
When starting from her filver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her fcream:
That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curfe on his ill-betiding croak)
Bodes me no good. No more the faid,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
Fell pione; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her math'd eggs beftrew'd the way.
She, fprawling in the yellow road,

A murrain take thy whorefon throat!
I knew misfortune in the note.

Dame, quoth the Raven, fpare your oaths,
Unclench your fift, and wipe your clothes.
But why on me thofe curfes thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own ;
For had you laid this brittle ware
On Dun, the old fure-footed mare,
Though all the Ravens of the hundred
With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd
Sure-footed Dun had kept his legs,

And you, good woman, fav'd your eggs.

§ 160. Fable XXXVIII. The Turkey and the An IN other men we faults can fpy,

And blame the moat that dims their eye;
Each little fpeck and blemith find;
To our own ftronger errors blind.

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forfook the barn, and fought the wood;
Behind her ran her infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.
Draw near, my birds, the mother cries,
This hill delicious fare fupplics;
Behold, the bufy Negro race:
See, millions blacken all the place!
Fear not. Like me with freedom eat
An Ant is moft delightful meat. :
How blefs'd, how envied were our life,
Could we but 'fcape the poult'rer's knife!
But man, curs'd man! on Turkey preys,
And Christmas fhortens all our days:
Sometimes with oyfters we combine,
Sometimes aflift the fav'ry chine.
From the low peasant to the lord,
The Turkey finoaks on ev'ry board.
Sure men for gluttony are curs'd:
Of the feven deadly fins the worst.

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach,
Thus anfwer'd from the neighb'ring beech:
Ere you remark another's fin,

Bid thy own confcience look within;
Controul thy more voracious bill,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill.

§ 161. Fable XXXIX. The Father and Jupiter. THE Man to Jove his fuit preferr'd;

Rail'd, fwore, and curs'd: Thou croaking toad,

My

My next with ftrong ambition fire:
May favour teach him to afpire;
Till he the ftep of pow'r afcend,
And courtiers to their idol bend.
With ev'ry grace, with ev'ry charm,
My daughter's perfect features arm.
If Heaven approve, a Father's bleft.
Jove fmiles, and grants his full request.
The firit, a mifer at the heart,
Studious of ev'ry griping art,

Heaps hoards on hoards with anxious pain;
And all his life devotes to gain.
He feels no joy, his cares increase,
He neither wakes nor fleeps in peace;
In fancied want (a wretch complete)
He farves, and yet he dares not eat.
The next to fudden honours grew :
The thriving art of courts he knew ;
He reach'd the height of pow'r and place,
Then fell, the victim of difgrace.

Beauty with early bloom fupplies
His daughter's cheek, and points her eyes.
The vain coquette each fuit difdains,
And glories in her lover's pains.
With age the fades, each lover flies,
Ceatemn'd, forlorn, fhe pines and dies.
When Jove the Father's grief furvey'd,
And heard him Heaven and Fate upbraid,
Thus fpoke the God: By outward fhew
Men judge of happiness and woc :
Sal ignorance of good and ill
Dare to direct th' Eternal Will?
Seck virtue: and, of that poffeft,
To Providence refign the rest.

$162. Fable XL. The Two Monkeys. THE learned, full of inward pride,

The Fops of outward show deride :
The Fop, with learning at defiance,
Scoffs at the pedant, and the fcience :
The Don, a formal, folemn ftrutter,
Depifes Monfieur's airs and flutter;
While Monfieur mocks the formal fool,
Who looks, and fpeaks, and walks by rule.
Britain, a medley of the twain,

As pert as France, as grave as Spain,
In fancy wifer than the reft,
Laughs at them both, of both the jest.
is not the poet's chiming close
Centur'd by all the fons of profe?
While bards of quick imagination
Defpife the fleepy profe narration.
Men laugh at apes, they men contemnn ;
For what are we but apes to them?

Two Monkeys went to Southwark fair, No critics had a fourer air:

They forc'd their way thro' draggled folks,
Who gap'd to catch Jack-pudding's jokes ;
Then took their tickets for the fhow,
And got by chance the foremost row.
To fee their grave, obferving face,
Provok'd a laugh through all the place.
Brother, fays Pug, and turn'd his head,
The rabble's monftrously ill-bred!

Now through the booth loud hiffes ran; Nor ended till the fhow began. The tumbler whirls the flip-flap round, With fomersets he shakes the ground; The cord beneath the dancer fprings; Aloft in air the vaulter swings; Distorted now, now prone depends, Now through his twifted arms afcends: The crowd, in wonder and delight, With clapping hands applaud the fight.

With miles, quoth Pug, If pranks like these
The giant apes of reafon please,
How would they wonder at our arts!
They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I've feen you cling,
Play, twift, and turn in airy ring:
How can thofe clumfy things, like me,
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applause, we find
Thefe emulators of our kind
Difcern our worth, our parts regard,
Who our mean mimics thus reward.

Brother, the grinning mate replies,
In this I grant that man is wife.
While good example they purfue,
We must allow fome praife is due;
But when they strain beyond their guide,
I laugh to fcorn the mimic pride;
For how fantastic is the fight,
To meet men always bolt upright,
Because we fometimes walk on two!
I hate the imitating crew.

§ 163. Fable XLI. The Owl and the Farmer.

AN Owl of grave deport and mien,

Who (like the Turk) was feldom feen,
Within a barn had chofe his station,
As fit for prey and contemplation.
Upon a beam aloft he fits,

And nods, and feems to think, by fits.
So have I seen a man of news
Or Poft-boy or Gazette perufe;
Smoke, nod, and talk with voice profound,
And fix the fate of Europe round.
Sheaves pil'd on fheaves hid all the floor.
At dawn of morn, to view his store,
The Farmer came. The hooting guest
His felf-importance thus exprefs'd:

Reafon in man is mere pretence:
How weak, how fhallow is his fenfe!
To treat with fcorn the Bird of Night,
Declares his folly, or his fpite.
Then, too, how partial is his praife!
The lark's, the linnet's chirping lays,
To his ill-judging ears are fine,
And nightingales are all divine.
But the more knowing feather'd race
See wifdom ftamp'd upon my face.
Whene'er to vifit light I deign,
What flocks of fowl comp fe my train!
Like flaves, they crowd my flight behind,
And own me of fuperior kind."

The Farmer laugh'd, and thus replied:
Thou dull important lump of pride,

Dar'ft

Dar't thou, with that harsh grating tongue,
Depreciate birds of warbling fong?
Indulge thy fpleen. Know, men and fowl
Regard thee as thou art, an Owl.
Befides, proud blockhead, be not vain
Of what thou call'ft thy flaves and train.
Few follow wisdom, or her rules;
Fools in derifion follow fools.

$164. Fable XLII. The Jugglers. A JUGGLER long through all the town

Had rais'd his fortune and renown;
You'd think (fo far his art transcends)
The devil at his fingers ends.

Vice heard his fame, the read his bill;
Convinc'd of his inferior skill,
She fought his booth, and from the crowd
Defied the man of art aloud:

Is this then he fo fam'd for flight>
Can this flow bungler cheat your fight?
Dares he with me difpute the prize?
I leave it to impartial eyes.

Provok'd, the Juggler cried, 'Tis done;
In fcience I fubmit to none.

Thus faid, the cups and balls he play'd;
By turns this here, that there, convey'd,
The cards, obedient to his words,
Are by a fillip turn'd to birds.
His little boxes change the grain;
Trick after trick deludes the train.
He shakes his bag, he fhews all fair;
His fingers fpread, and nothing there;
Then bids it rain with fhow'rs of gold:
And now his iv'ry eggs are told;
But when from thence the hen he draws,
Amaz'd spectators hum applaufe.

Vice now ftept forth, and took the place
With all the forms of his grimace.

This magic looking glafs, the cries, (There, hand it round) will charm your eyes. Each cager eye the fight defir'd, And ev'ry man himself admir'd.

Next, to a fenator addreffing,

See this bank-note; obferve the bleffing,
Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pafs! 'tis gone.
Upon his lips a padlock shone.

A fecond puff the magic broke;
The padlock vanish'd, and he spoke.

Twelve bottles rang'd upon the board,
All full, with heady liquor ftor'd,
By clean conveyance disappear,
And now, two bloody fwords are there.
A purfe the to a thief expos'd;
At once his ready fingers clos'd.
He opes his fift, the treasure's fled;
He fees a halter in its ftead.

She bids ambition hold a wand;
He grafps a hatchet in his hand.

A box of charity the fhews:

Blow here; and a church-warden blows.
'Tis vanifh'd with conveyance neat,
And on the table fmoaks a treat.

She thakes the dice, the board the knocks, And from all pockets fills her box.

She next a meagre rake addrefs'd:
This picture fee; her shape, her breast!
What youth, and what inviting eyes!
Hold her, and have her. With furprise
His hand expos'd a box of pills,
And a loud laugh proclaim'd his ills.
A counter in a mifer's hand
Grew twenty guineas at command.
She bids his heir the fum retain,
And 'tis a counter now again.
A guinea with her touch you fee
Take ev'ry fhape, but Charity
And not one thing you faw, or drew,
But chang'd from what was first in view.
The Juggler now, in grief of heart,
With this fubmiffion own'd her art:
Can I fuch matchlefs flight withstand!
How practice hath improv'd your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng;
You ev'ry day, and all day long.

165. Fable XLIII. The Council of Horfes. UPON a time, a neighing Steed,

Who graz'd among a num'rous breed,
With mutiny had fir'd the train,
And fpread diffenfion through the plain.
On matters that concern'd the ftate
The council met in grand debate.
A Colt, whofe eye-balls flam'd with ire,
Elate with ftrength and youthful fire,
In hafte ftept forth before the rest,
And thus the lift'ning throng addrefs'd:
Good gods! how abject is our race,
Condemn'd to flav'ry and disgrace !
Shall we our fervitude retain,
Because our fires have borne the chain?
Confider, friends, your ftrength and might;
'Tis conquest to affert your right.
How cumbrous is the gilded coach!
The pride of man is our reproach.
Were we defign'd for daily toil,

To drag the plough-fhare through the foil,
To fweat in harness through the road,
To groan beneath the carrier's load?
How feeble are the two-legg'd kind!
What force is in our nerves combin'd!
Shall then our nobler jaws fubmit
To foam and champ the galling bit?
Shall haughty man my back beftride?
Shall the harp fpur provoke my fide?
Forbid it, Heavens! Reject the rein;
Your fhame, your infamy difdain.
Let him the lion firft controul,
And fill the tiger's famifh'd growl.
Let us, like them, our freedom claim,
And make him tremble at our name.
A gen'ral nod approv'd the caufe,
And all the circle neigh'd applaufe.
When, lo! with grave and folemn pace,
A Steed advanc'd before the race;
With age and long experience wife,
Around he caft his thoughtful eyes;
And, to the murmurs of the train,
Thus fpoke the Neftor of the plain :

When

When I had health and strength, like you,
The toils of fervitude I knew;

Now grateful man rewards my pains,
And gives me all thefe wide domains.
At will I crop the year's increase;
My later life is reft and peace.
I grist, to man we lend our pains,
And aid him to correct the plains:
But doth not he divide the care,
Through all the labours of the year?
How many thousand structures rife,
To fence us from inclement skies!
For us he bears the fultry day,
And fiores up all our winter's hay.
He fows, he reaps the harveft's grain;
We thare the toil, and fhare the gain.
Since ev'ry creature was decreed
To aid each other's mutual need,
Appeafe your difcontented mind,
And act the part by Heaven affign'd.

The tumult ceas'd. The Colt fubmitted;
And, like his ancestors, was bitted.

§ 166. Fable XLIV. The Hound and the Huntsman.
MPERTINENCE at first is borne
With heedlefs flight, or fmiles of fcorn;
Tea'd into wrath, what patience bears
The noify fool who perfeveres?

The morning wakes, the Huntfman founds,
At once ruth forth the joyful hounds.
They feck the wood with eager pace;
Thro' buth, thro' brier, explore the chace.
Now, fcatter'd wide, they try the plain,
And fauff the dewy turf in vain.
What care, what industry, what pains!
What univerfa! filence reigns!

Ringwood, a dog of little fame,
Young, pert, and ignorant of game,
At once difplays his babbling throat;
The pack, regardless of the note,
Parfue the fcent; with louder strain
He ftill perfifts to vex the train.
The Huntfman to the clamour flies;
The fmacking lath he fmartly plies.
His ribs all welk'd, with howling tone
The Puppy thus exprefs'd his moan:
I know the mufic of my tongue
Long fince the pack with envy ftung.
What will not ipite? Thefe bitter finarts
lowe to my fuperior parts.

When puppies prate, the Huntfman cried,
They thew both ignorance and pride:

Fools

For

may our fcorn, not envy, raife;

envy is a kind of praife.

Had not thy forward noify tongue
Proclaim'd thee always in the wrong,
Thou might ft have mingled with the reft,
Aad ne'er thy foolish noife confefs'd.
But fools, to talking ever prone,
Are fure to make their follies known.

167. Fable XLV. The Poet and the Rofe. HATE the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame,

Thus prudes by characters o'erthrown
Imagine that they raife their own.
Thus fcribblers, covetous of praife,
Think flander can tranfplant the bays.
Beauties and hards have equal pride:
With both all rivals are decried.
Who praifes Lefbia's eyes and feature,
Muft call her fifter aukward creature;
For the kind flattery's fure to charm,
When we fome other nymph difarm.
As in the cool of early day
A Poet fought the fweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath afcends,
And ev'ry ftalk with odour bends.
A Rofe he pluck'd, he gaz'd, admir'd,
Thus finging, as the Mufe infpir'd:
Go, Rofe, my Chloe's bofom grace :
How happy fhould I prove,
Might I fupply that envied place
With never-fading love!

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die!
Know, hapless flow'r, that thou fhalt find
More fragrant rofes there:

I fee thy with ring head reclin'd

With envy and defpair!

One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.
Spare your comparisons, replied
An angry Rofe who grew befide.
Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a Poet do without us?
In ev'ry love-fong roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse ?
Muft we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade?

$168. Fable XLVI. The Cur, the Horfe, and the Shepherd's Dog.

THE lad of all-fufficient merit

With modefty ne'er damps his fpirit;
Prefuming on his own deferts,
On all alike his tongue exerts;

His noify jokes at random throws,
And pertly spatters friends and foes.
In wit and war the bully race
Contribute to their own difgrace.
Too late the forward youth shall find
That jokes are fometimes paid in kind;
Or, if they canker in the breaft,
He makes a foe who makes a jest.

A Village-cur, of inappifh race,
The perteft Puppy of the place,
Imagin'd that his treble throat
Was bleft with mufic's fweeteft note;
In the mid-road he basking lay,
The yelping nuifance of the way;
For not a creature pafs'd along,
But had a fample of his fong.

Soon as the trotting steed he hears, He starts, he cocks his dapper ears; I

A way

Away he fcours, affaults his hoof;
Now near him fnarls, now barks aloof;
With thrill impertinence attends;
Nor leaves him till the village ends.
It chanc'd, upon his evil day,
A Pad came pacing down the way:
The Cur, with never-ceafing tongue,
Upon the paffing trav'ller 1prung.
The Horfe, from fcorn provok'd to ire,
Flung backward: rolling in the mire
The Puppy howl'd, and bleeding lay;
The Pad in peace purfued his way.

A Shepherd's Dog, who faw the deed,
Detefting the vexatious breed,
Befpoke him thus: When coxcombs prate,
They kindle wrath, contempt, or hate;
Thy teazing tongue had judgment tied,
Thou hadít not like a Puppy died.

$169. Fable XLVII. The Court of Death.
DEATH, on a folemn night of ftate,
In all his pomp of terror fate;
Th' attendants of his gloomy reign,
Difeafes dire, a ghaftly train!

Crowd the vaft Court. With hollow tone,
A voice thus thunder'd from the throne:
This night our minifter we name,
Let ev'ry fervant speak his claim;
Merit fhall bear this ebon wand.-
All, at the word, ftretch'd forth their hand.
Fever, with burning heat poffeft,
Advanc'd, and for the wand addrefs'd:
I to the weekly bills appeal,
Let thofe exprefs my fervent zeal;
On ev'ry flight occafion near,
With violence I perfevere.

Next Gout appears, with limping pace,
Pleads how he fhifts from place to place;
From head to foot how fwift he flies,
And ev'ry joint and finew plies;
Still working when he feems fuppreft-
A moft tenacious, ftubborn guest.

A haggard Spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus afferts his due:
'Tis I who taint the fweetcft joy,
And in the fhape of love deftroy:
My thanks, funk eyes, and nofclefs face,
Prove my pretenfion to the place.

Stone urg'd his ever-growing force;
And next Confumption's meagre corfe,
With feeble voice that fcarce was heard,
Broke with fhort coughs, his fuit preferr'd:
Let none object my ling ring way,
I gain, like Fabius, by delay;
Fatigue and weaken ev'ry foe
By long attack-fecure, though flow.
Plague reprefents his rapid pow'r,
Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hop'd the wand. Now expectation hufh'd the band,

When thus the monarch from the throne:
Merit was ever modest known.
What, no Phyfician fpeak his right?
None here! but fees their toils requite.

Let then Intemp'rance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their zealous hand,
You Fever, Gout, and all the reft,
Whom wary men as foes deteft,
Forego your claim; no more pretend;
Intemp'rance is esteem'd a friend;
He fhares their mirth, their focial joys,
And as a courted guest destroys.
The charge on him muft jufily fall,
Who finds employment for you all.

8170. Fable XLVIII. The Gardener and the Hog. GARDINER of peculiar tafte

A

On a young Hog his favour plac'd,
Who fed not with the common herd;
His tray was to the hall preferr'd.
He wallow'd underneath the board,
Or in his mafter's chamber fnor'd;
And taught him all the puppy's play.
Who fondly ftrok'd him ev'ry day,
Where'er he went, the grunting friend
Ne'er fail'd his pleasure to attend.

As on a time the loving pair
Walk'd forth to tend the garden's care,
The Mafter thus addrefs'd the Swine:
My houfe, my garden, all is thine.
On turnips feaft whene'er you please,,
And riot in my beans and peafe;
If the potatoe's tafte delights,
Or the red carrot's fweet invites,
Indulge thy morn and ev'ning hours,
But let due care regard my flow'rs.
My tulips are my garden's pride,
What vaft expence those beds fupplied!

The Hog by chance one morning roam'd,
Where with new ale the veffels foam'd:
He munches now the ftreaming grains;
Now with full fwill the liquor drains.
Intoxicating fumes arife;

He reels, he rolls his winking eyes;
Then, ftagg'ring, through the garden fcours,
And treads down painted ranks of flow'rs.
With delving fnout he turns the foil,
And cools his palate with the spoil.

The Mafter came, the ruin fpied;
Villain, fufpend thy rage! he cried:
Haft thou, thou moft ungrateful fot!
My charge, my only charge forgot?
What, all my flow'rs! No more he said,
But gaz'd, and figh'd, and hung his head.

The Hog with ftutt'ring' fpeech returns,
Explain, Sir, why your anger burns.
See there, untouch'd, your tulips strewn,
For I devour'd the roots alone.

At this the Gard'ner's paffion grows,
From oaths and threats he fell to blows.
The ftubborn brute the blows fuftains,
Affaults his leg, and tears his veins.

Ah, foolish fwain! too late you find,
That fties were for fuch friends defign'd.
Homeward he limps with painful pace,
Reflecting thus on paft difgrace:
Who cherifles a brutal mate
Shall mourn the folly foon or late.

§ 171.