Woolton Inv.

I Tan Gucht, Felp

A

FABLE XLI.

The O w L and the FARMER.

N Owl of grave deport and mein,

Who (like the Turk) was feldom feen,

Within a barn had chofe his ftation,

As fit for prey and contemplation:

Upon a beam aloft he fits,

And nods, and seems to think, by fits.

So have I feen 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 sheaves hid all the floor:

At dawn of morn to view his store
The Farmer came. The hooting guest
His felf-importance thus expreft.

Reason in man is mere pretence:
How weak, how fhallow is his fenfe!
To treat with scorn the bird of night,
Declares his folly or his spite;
Then too, how partial is his praise!
The lark's, the linnet's chirping lays
To his ill-judging ears are fine;

And nightingales are all divine.

But

But the more knowing feather'd race

See wisdom ftampt upon my face.

Whene'er to vifit light I deign,

What flocks of fowl compofe my train!
Like flaves, they croud my flight behind,
And own me of superior kind.

The Farmer laugh'd, and thus reply'd.
Thou dull important lump of pride,

Dar'ft thou with that harsh grating tongue
Depreciate birds of warbling fong?

Indulge thy fpleen. Know, men and fow!

Regard thee, as thou art, an owl.

Befides, proud blockhead, be not vain

Of what thou call'ft thy flaves and train,

Few follow wifdom or her rules,

Fools in derifion follow fools.

3

M 2

FABLE

Kent inv.

P.Fourdrinier sal

FABLE XLII.

The JUGGLER S.

A JUGGLER long through all the tow

Had rais'd his fortune and renown;

You'd think (fo far his art transcends)
The devil at his finger's ends.

Vice heard his fame, fhe read his bill; Convinc'd of his inferior skill,

She fought his booth, and from the croud

Defy'd 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 cry'd, '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 fhows all fair,
His fingers fpread, and nothing there,