Whene'er a thymy bank he found,
He roll'd upon the fragrant ground;
And then with fond attention ftood,
Fix'd, o'er his image in the flood.

I hate my frowzy beard, he cries;
My youth is loft in this difguife.

Did not the females know

my vigour,
Well might they loath this rev'rend figure.
Refolv'd to fmooth his fhaggy face,
He fought the barber of the place.
A flippant monkey, fpruce and smart,
Hard by, profefs'd the dapper art.
His pole with pewter bafons hung,
Black rotten teeth in order ftrung;
Rang'd cups, that in the window flood,
Lin'd with red rags, to look like blood,
Did well his threefold trade explain,
Who fhav'd, drew teeth, and breath'd a vein.
The Goat he welcomes with an air,
And feats him in his wooden chair:
Mouth, nofe and cheek the lather hides;
Light, smooth and swift the razor glides.
I hope your custom, Sir, fays pug.
Sure never face was half fo fmug!

The Goat, impatient for applaufe,
Swift to the neighb'ring hill withdraws;
The fhaggy people grinn'd and star'd.
Heighday! what's here? without a beard!

Say,

Say, brother, whence the dire difgrace?
What envious hand hath robb'd your face?
When thus the fop with fmiles of scorn:
Are beards by civil nations worn?
Ev'n Mufcovites have mow'd their chins.
Shall we, like formal Capucins,
Stubborn in pride, retain the mode,
And bear about the hairy load?
Whene'er we through the village ftray,
Are we not mock'd along the way;
Infulted with loud fhouts of fcorn,
By boys our beards difgrac'd and torn?
Were you no more with Goats to dwell,
Brother, I grant you reafon well,
Replies a bearded chief. Befide,
If boys can mortify thy pride,
How wilt thou stand the ridicule.
Of our whole flock? affected fool!
Coxcombs, diftinguish'd from the reft,
To all but coxcombs are a jest.

FABLE XXIII.

The Old WOMAN and her CATS.

WHO

HO friendship with a knave hath made,
Is judg'd a partner in the trade.

The matron who conducts abroad

A willing nymph, is thought a bawd:

And if a modeft girl is feen
With one who cures a lover's fpleen,
We guess her not extremely nice,
And only wish to know her price.
"Tis thus, that on the choice of friends
Our good or evil name depends.

A wrinkled Hag, of wicked fame,
Befide a little fmoaky flame

Sat hov'ring, pinch'd with age and froft;
Her fhrivell'd hands, with veins emboss'd,
Upon her knees her weight fuftains,
While palfy fhook her crazy brains:
She mumbles forth her backward prayers,
An untam'd fcold of fourfcore years.
About her fwarm'd a num'rous brood
Of Cats, who lank with hunger mew'd.

Teaz'd with their cries, her choler grew,
And thus fhe fputter'd. Hence, ye crew,
Fool that I was, to entertain

Such imps, fuch fiends, a hellish train!
Had ye been never hous'd and nurs'd:
I, for a witch, had ne'er been curs'd.
To you I owe, that crowds of boys
Worry me with eternal noife ;

Straws laid across my pace retard,

The horse-shoe's nail'd (each threshold's guard) The ftunted broom the wenches hide,

For fear that I fhould up and ride;

They

They flick with pins my bleeding feat,
And bid me fhow my fecret teat.

To hear you prate would vex a faint;
Who hath most reafon of complaint?
Replies a Cat. Let's come to proof.
Had we ne'er ftarv'd beneath your roof,
We had, like others of our race,

In credit liv'd, as beafts of chace.:
'Tis infamy to ferve a hag;

Cats are thought imps, her broom a nag;
And boys against our lives combine,
Because, 'tis said, your cats have nine.

A

FABLE XXIV.

The BUTTERFLY and the SNAIL.

LL upftarts, infolent in place,

Remind us of their vulgar race.

As, in the fun-fhine of the morn,
A Butterfly (but newly born)
Sat proudly perking on a rose;
With pert conceit his bofom glows;
His wings (all-glorious to behold)
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he difplays; the fpangled dew
Reflects his eyes, and various hue.

His now forgotten friend, a Snail,
Beneath his house, with flimy trail
Crawls o'er the grafs; whom when he 'fpies,
In wrath he to the gard'ner cries:
What means yon peafant's daily toil,
From choaking weeds to rid the foil?
Why wake you to the morning's care?
Why with new arts correct the year ?
Why glows the peach with crimson hue?
And why the plumb's inviting blue?
Were they to feast his taste design'd,
That vermin of voracious kind?
Crush then the flow, the pilf'ring race;
So purge thy garden from difgrace.
What arrogance! the fnail reply'd ;
How infolent is upstart pride!

Hadft thou not thus, with infult vain,
Provok'd my patience to complain,
I had conceal'd thy meaner birth,

Nor trac'd thee to the fcum of earth.

For fcarce nine funs have wak'd the hours,.

To fwell the fruit, and paint the flowers,
Since I thy humble life survey'd,
In bafe and fordid guife array'd;

A hideous infect, vile, unclean,
You dragg'd a flow and noisome train;
And from your spider-bowels drew
Foul film, and spun the dirty clue..