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I own my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and Snail shall end.
And what's a Butterfly ? At best,
He's but a caterpillar, dreft;
And all thy race (a num'rous feed)
Shall prove a caterpillar breed.

FABLE XXV.

The SCOLD and the PARROT.

HE Hufband thus reprov'd his wife:

TH

Who deals in flander, lives in ftrife.
Art thou the herald of difgrace,
Denouncing war to all thy race?

Can nothing quell thy thunder's rage,
Which spares nor friend, nor fex, nor age.
That vixen tongue of your's, my dear,
Alarms our neighbours far and near.
Good gods! 'tis like a rolling river,
That murm'ring flows, and flows for ever!
Ne'er tir'd, perpetual difcord fowing!
Like fame, it gathers ftrength by going.
Heighday! the flippant tongue replies,

How folemn is the fool! how wife!
Is nature's choiceft gift debarr'd?
Nay, frown not; for I will be heard.
Women of late are finely ridden,
A Parrot's privilege forbidden!

You

You praise his talk, his fquawling fong;
But Wives are always in the wrong.
Now reputations flew in pieces

Of mothers, daughters, aunts, and nieces;
She ran the Parrot's language o'er,
Bawd, huffy, drunkard, flattern, whore ;
On all the fex fhe vents her fury,
Tries and condemns without a jury.
At once the torrent of her words
Alarm'd cat, monkey, dogs, and birds;
All join their forces to confound her.
Pufs fpits; the monkey chatters round her;
The yelping cur her heels affaults;

The magpye blabs out all her faults;
Poll, in the uproar, from his cage,
With this rebuke out fcream'd her rage.

A Parrot is for talking priz'd,
But prattling Women are despis'd.
She who attacks another's honour,
Draws ev'ry living thing upon her.
Think, Madam, when you ftretch your lungs,
That all your neighbours too have tongues :
One flander must ten thousand get,

The world with int'reft pays the debt.

FABLE

A

FABLE XXVI.

The CUR and the MASTIFF.

Sneaking Cur, the mafter's
's fpy,
Rewarded for his daily lie,

With fecret jealoufies and fears
Set all together by the ears.
Poor Pufs to-day was in disgrace,
Another cat fupply'd her place;
The hound was beat, the Maftiff chid,
The monkey was the room forbid;
Each to his dearest friend grew fhy,
And none could tell the reason why.
A plan to rob the house was laid.
The thief with love feduc'd the maid
Cajol'd the Cur, and ftrok'd his head,
And bought his fecrecy with bread.
He next the Maftiff's honour try'd;
Whofe honeft jaws the bribe defy'd.
He ftretch'd his hand to proffer more;
The furly Dog his fingers tore.

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Swift ran the Cur; with indignation 'The mafter took his information.

Hang him, the villain's curs'd, he cries;
And round his neck the halter ties.
The Dog his humble fuit preferr'd,

And begg'd in justice to be heard.

The

The mafter fat. On either hand

The cited dogs confronting stand:
The cur the bloody tale relates,
And, like a lawyer, aggravates.
Judge not unheard, the Mastiff cry'd,
But weigh the cause of either fide.
Think not that treach'ry can be just,
Take not informers words on trust.
They ope their hand to ev'ry pay,
And you and me by turns betray.

He spoke. And all the truth appear'd.
The Cur was hang'd, the Mastiff clear'd.

FABLE XXVII.

The SICK MAN and the ANGEL.

'S there no hope? the fick man faid.

Is

The filent doctor fhook his head,

And took his leave with figns of forrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

When thus the Man, with gasping breath:
I feel the chilling wound of death,
Since I must bid the world adieu,
Let me my former life review.

I grant, my bargains well were made,
But all men over-reach in trade;
"Tis felf-defence in each profeffion.
Sure felf-defence is no tranfgreffion.

The

The little portion in my hands,
By good fecurity on lands,
Is well increas'd. If unawares,
My juftice to myself and heirs,
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good fufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed,
Reduc'd a family to need,

My will hath made the world amends,
My hope on charity depends.

When I am number'd with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,

By heav'n and earth 'twill then be known
My charities were amply shown.

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 power,
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now, while you draw the vital air,
Prove
your intention is fincère.

This inftant give a hundred pound;

Your neighbours want, and you abound.

But why fuch hafte! the Sick Man whines; Who knows as yet what heav'n designs?

Perhaps

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