a

LE XVI.

Texton, and the Earth.

torm.

LAURA.

as you're over-nice.
Shocking vice;
the praise is jußt,
i without disgust.
leny'd,

Congue befide?
Il your ways?
erfe to praise!
truths to tell,

its thus excel?

e not speak my mind,

is to mankind;

tre ev'ry grace
leftial face;

of inferiour ray

the orb of day) de: I check my lays, dare not praife.

The various labours of the year;
But then confider, that one day,
(Perhaps the hour's not far away)
You, by the duties of your post,
Shall turn the fpit when I'm the roaft;
And for reward fhall fhare the feaft,
I mean, fhall pick my bones at least.

Till now, th' aftonish'd Cur replies, I look'd on all with envious eyes; How falle we judge by what appears! All creatures feel their fev'ral cares. If thus yon mighty beaft complains, Perhaps man knows fuperiour pains. Let envy then no more torment. Think on the Ox, and learn content.

Thus faid; close following at her heel, With cheerful heart he mounts the wheel.

FABLE XVI.

The Ravens, the Sexton, and the Earth.

worm.

TO LAURA.

LAURA, methinks you're over-nice.
True. Flatt'ry is a fhocking vice;
Yet fare, whene'er the praise is juft,
One may commend without disguft.
Am I a privilege deny'd,

Indulg'd by ev'ry tongue befide ?
How fingular are all your ways?
A woman, and averse to praise !
If 'tis offence fuch truths to tell,
Why do your merits thus excel?

Since then I dare not speak my mind, A truth confpicuous to mankind; Though in full luftre ev'ry grace Diftinguish your celeftial face; Though beauties of inferiour ray (Like ftars before the orb of day) Turn pale and fade: I check my lays, Admiring what I dare not praise.

If you the tribute due disdain,
The Mufe's mortifying ftrain
Shall, like a woman, in mere spite

Set beauty in a moral light.

Though fuch revenge might shock the ear Of many a celebrated fair;

I mean that fuperficial race

Whose thoughts ne'er reach beyond their face;
What's that to you? I but displease
Such ever-girlifh ears as these.

Virtue can brook the thoughts of age,
That lafts the fame through ev'ry ftage.
Though you by time muft fuffer more
Than ever woman loft before;
To age is fuch indiff'rence shewn,
As if your face were not your own.

Were you by ANTONINUS taught? Or is it native ftrength of thought, That thus, without concern or fright, You view yourself by reason's light?

Those eyes of fo divine a ray, What are they? Mould'ring, mortal clay. Those features, caft in heav'nly mould, Shall, like my coarser earth, grow old;

Like common grafs, the faireft flow'r
Muft feel the hoary season's pow'r.

How weak, how vain is human pride! Dares man upon himself confide? The wretch, who glories in his gain, Amaffes heaps on heaps in vain. Why lose we life in anxious cares To lay in hoards for future years? Can thofe (when tortur'd by disease) Cheer our fick heart, or purchase ease? Can those prolong one gasp of breath, Or calm the troubled hour of death?

What's beauty? call ye that your own? A flow'r that fades as foon as blown. What's man in all his boaft of sway? Perhaps the tyrant of a day.

Alike the laws of life take place
Through ev'ry branch of human race :
The monarch of long regal line

Was rais'd from duft as frail as mine.
Can he pour health into his veins,
Or cool the fever's restless pains?
Can he (worn down in Nature's courfe)
New-brace his feeble nerves with force?