With secret jealousies and fears Poor Puss to-day was in disgrace— The hound was beat, the mastiff chid, He spoke; and all the truth appear'd:The Cur was hang'd, the Mastiff clear'd. t FABLE XXVII. The sick Man and the Angel. IS there no hope? the sick Man said. And took his leave with signs of sorrow, When thus the Man, with gasping I feel the chilling wound of death! I grant my bargains were well made; My will hath made the world amends- When I am number'd with the dead, By heav'n and earth 'twill then be known, My charities were amply shewn. An Angel came. Ah, friend! he cry'd! No more in flatt'ring hope confide. Can thy good deeds in former times Outweigh the balance of thy crimes? What widow or what orphan prays To crown thy life with length of days? A pious action's in thy pow'r; Embrace with joy the happy hour. Now while you draw the vital air, Prove your intention is sincere. This instant give a hundred pound; Your neighbours want, and you abound. But why such haste? the sick Man whines; Who knows as yet what Heav'n designs? Perhaps I may recover still. That sum, and more, are in my will. Fool! says the Vision, now 'tis plain, Your life, your soul, your heav'n was gain. From ev'ry side, with all your might, You scrap'd, and scrap'd beyond your right; And, after death, would fain atone, While there is life, there's hope, he cry'd: Then why such haste?-so groan'd, and dy'd! FABLE XXVIII. The Persian, the Sun, and the Cloud. IS there a bard whom Genius fires, Whose ev'ry thought the God inspires? When Envy reads the nervous lines, She frets, she rails, she raves, she pines; Her hissing snakes with venom swell; She calls her venal train from hell: The servile fiends her nod obey, And all Curl's authors are in pay. Fame calls up Calumny and SpiteThus shadow owes its birth to light. As prostrate to the God of day, With heart devout, a Persian lay, His invocation thus begun: Parent of light, all-seeing Sun! Prolific beam, whose rays dispense The various gifts of Providence, Accept our praise, our daily pray’rSmile on our fields, and bless the year! A Cloud, who mock'd his grateful tongue, The day with sudden darkness hung; With pride and envy swell'd, aloud A voice thus thunder'd from the cloud :Weak is this gaudy God of thine, Whom I at will forbid to shine. Shall I nor vows nor incense know? Where praise is due, the praise bestow. With fervent zeal the Persian mov❜d, Thus the proud calumny reprov'd: It was that God who claims my pray'r, FABLE XXIX. The Fox at the Point of Death. And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw. The hungry foxes round them star'd, And for the promis'd feast prepar'd. E |