A

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH.

FOX, in life's extreme decay,
Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay;
All appetite had left his maw,

And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw,
His num'rous race around him stand,
To learn their dying sire's command.
He rais'd his head with whining moan,
And thus was heard the feeble tone :-

Ah, sons! from evil ways depart; My crimes lie heavy on my heart: See, see, the murder'd geese appear! Why are those bleeding turkies there? Why all around this cackling train, Who haunt my ears for chickens slain?

The hungry FOXES round them star'd, And for the promis'd feast prepar'd.

Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer? Nor turkey, goose, nor hen, is here: These are the phantoms of your brain, And your sons lick their lips in vain.

O gluttons, says the drooping sire,
Restrain inordinate desire;
Your liqu'rish taste you shall deplore,
When peace of conscience is no more.
Does not the hound betray our pace,
And gins and guns destroy our race?
Thieves dread the searching eye of pow'r,
And never feel the quiet hour.

Old age (which few of us shall know)
Now puts a period to my woe.
Would you true happiness attain,
Let honesty your passions rein;
So live in credit and esteem,
And the good-name you lost redeem!

The counsel's good, a Fox replies, Could we perform what you advise. Think what our ancestors have done; A line of thieves, from son to son; To us descends the long disgrace, And infamy hath mark'd our race. Though we like harmless sheep should feed, Honest in thought, in word, and deed, Whatever hen-roost is decreast,

We shall be thought to share the feast.

The change shall never be believ'dA lost good-name is ne'er retriev'd.

Nay, then, replies the feeble Fox, (But hark! I hear a hen that clucks) Go, but be mod' rate in your food; A chicken, too, might do me good.

THE SETTING-DOG AND THE PARTRIDGE.

THE ranging DOG the stubble tries,

And searches ev'ry breeze that flies:
The scent grows warm; with cautious fear
He creeps, and points the covey near.
The men in silence, far behind,
Conscious of game, the net unbind.

A PARTRIDGE, with experience wise, The fraudful preparation spies; She mocks their toils, alarms her brood, The covey springs, and seeks the wood; But, ere her certain wing she tries, Thus to the creeping SPANIEL cries:

Thou fawning slave to man's deceit, Thou pimp of lux'ry, sneaking cheat,

Of thy whole species thou disgrace;
DOGS should disown thee of their race!
For, if I judge their native parts,
They're born with open honest hearts;
And, ere they serv'd man's wicked ends,
Were gen'rous foes, or real friends.

When thus the DOG, with scornful smile :

Secure of wing, thou dar'st revile.

Clowns are to polish'd manners blind;
How ign'rant is the rustic mind!
My worth sagacious courtiers see,
And to preferment rise, like me.
The thriving pimp, who beauty sets,
Hath oft enhanc'd a nation's debts;
Friend sets his friend, without regard;
And ministers his skill reward.

Thus, train'd by man, I learnt his ways,
And growing favour feasts my days.

I might have guess'd, the PARTRIDGE said, The place where you were train'd and fed; Servants are apt, and in a trice

Ape, to a hair, their master's vice.

You came from court, you say. Adieu,
She said, and to the covey flew.