Great souls with gen'rous pity melt,
Which coward tyrants never felt.
How harmless is our fleeey care!
Be brave, and let thy mercy spare.
Friend, says the Wolf, the matter weigh:
Nature design'd us beasts of prey;
As such, when hunger finds a treat,
'Tis necessary wolves should eat.
If, mindful of the bleating weal,
Thy bosom burn with real zeal.
Hence, and thy tyrant lord beseech;
To him repeat the moving speech.
A wolf cats sheep but now and then;
Ten thousands are devour'd by men!
An open foe may prove a curse,
But a pretended friend is worse.
The Painter who pleased nobody and
everybody.
LEST men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view;
The trav'ller, leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds.
Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
Makes e'en his real courage doubted.
But flatt'ry never seems absurd—
The flatter'd always take your word:
Impossibilities seem just;
They take the strongest praise on trust.
Hyperboles, tho' ne'er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.
So very like a Painter drew,
That ev'ry eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just, that life itself was there.
No flatt'ry with his colours laid,
No bloom restor'd the faded maid:
He gave each muscle all its strength-
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length,
His honest pencil touch'd with truth,
And mark'd the date of age and youth.
He lost his friends, his practice fail'd;
Truth should not always be reveal'd:
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.
Two bustos, fraught with ev'ry grace,
A Venus' and Apollo's face,
He plac'd in view: resolv'd to please
Whoever sat, he drew from these,
From these corrected ev'ry feature,
And spirited each aukward creature.
All things were set; the hour was come;
His palette ready o'er his thumb;
My Lord appear'd; and seated right,
In proper attitude and light,
The Painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece,
Then dipp'd his pencil, talk'd of Greece,
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air:
Those eyes, my Lord, the spirit there
Might well a Raphael's hand require
To give them all their native fire;
The features, fraught with sense and wit,
You'll grant, are very hard to hit;
But yet with patience you shall view
As much as paint and art can do.
Observe the work. My Lord reply'd,
Till now I thought my mouth was wide;
Besides, my nose is somewhat long;
Dear Sir, for me 'tis far too young.
Oh! pardon me, the Artist cry'd;
In this we Painters must decide.
The piece e'en common eyes must strike-
I warrant it extremely like.
My Lord examin'd it anew:
No looking-glass seem'd half so true.
A Lady came; with borrow'd grace
He from his Venus form'd her face.
Her lover prais'd the Painter's art-
So like the picture in his heart!
To ev'ry age some charm he lent;
E'en beauties were almost content.
Thro' all the town his art they prais'd;
His custom grew, his price was rais'd.
Had he the real likeness shewn,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.
FABLE XIX.
The Lion and the Cub,
HOW fond are men of rule and place,
Who court it from the mean and base!
These cannot bear an equal nigh,
But from superior merit fly.
They love the cellar's vulgar joke,
And lose their hours in ale and smoke;
There o'er some petty club preside-
So poor, so paltry is their pride;
Nay, e'en with fools whole nights will sit,
In hopes to be supreme in wit.
If these can read, to these I write,
To set their worth in truest light.
A Lion Cub, of sordid mind,
Avoided all the lion kind;
Fond of applause, he sought the feasts
Of vulgar and ignoble beasts;
With asses all his time he spent,
Their club's perpetual president.
He caught their manners, looks, and airs;
An ass in ev'ry thing but ears!
If e'er his highness meant a joke,
They grinn'd applause before he spoke!
But, at each word, what shouts of praise!
Good Gods! how natural he brays!
Elate with flatt'ry and conceit,
He seeks his royal sire's retreat;
Forward, and fond to shew his parts,
His highness brays; the Lion starts!
Puppy! that curs'd vociferation Betrays thy life and conversation: Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race, Are trumpets of their own disgrace. Why so severe? the Cub replies; Our senate always held me wise. How weak is pride! returns the sire; All fools are vain, when fools admire! But know, what stupid asses prize, Lions and noble beasts despise.
FABLE XX.
The Old Hen and the Cock.
RESTRAIN your child; you'll soon
The text which says, we sprung from Eve. As an old Hen led forth her train,
And seem'd to peck, to shew the grain, She rak'd the chaff, she scratch'd the ground,
And glean'd the spacious yard around.
A giddy chick, to try her wings,
On the well's narrow margin springs,
And prone she drops. The mother's breast
All day with sorrow was possest.
A Cock she met; her son she knew;
And in her heart affection grew.
My son, says she, I grant your years Have reach'd beyond a mother's cares.
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