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Perhaps I may recover ftill.

That fum and more are in my will.

Fool, fays the Vifion, now 'tis plain,
Your life, your foul, your heav'n was gain.
From ev'ry fide, with all your might,

You fcrap'd, and fcrap'd beyond your right;
And after death would fain atone,

By giving what is not your own.

While there is life, there's hope, he cry'd; Then why fuch hafte? fo groan'd and dy'd.

I

FABLE XXVIII.

The PERSIAN, the SUN, and the CLOUD.

there a bard whom genius fires,

Whofe ev'ry thought the God inspires?
When envy reads the nervous lines,
She frets, she rails, fhe raves, fhe pines;
Her hiffing fnakes with venom swell;
She calls her venal train from hell:
The fervile fiends her nod obey,
And all CURL's authors are in pay,
Fame calls up calumny and spite.
Thus fhadow owes its birth to light.

As proftrate to the God of day With heart devout a Perfian lay,

His invocation thus begun.
Parent of light, all-feeing Sun,
Prolific beam, whofe rays difpenfe
The various gifts of providence,
Accept our praife, our daily prayer,
Smile on our fields and blefs the year.

A Cloud, who mock'd his grateful tongue,
The day with fudden darkness hung;
With pride and envy fwell'd, aloud

A voice thus thunder'd from the cloud.
Weak is this gawdy God of thine,
Whom I at will forbid to shine.
Shall I nor vows, nor incenfe know?
Where praise is due, the praise bestow.
With fervent zeál the Perfian mov'd,
Thus the proud calumny reprov'd.

It was that God, who claims my prayer,
Who gave
thee birth and rais'd thee there:
When o'er his beams the veil is thrown,
Thy fubftance is but plainer fhown.
A paffing gale, a puff of wind
Difpels thy thickeft troops combin'd.
The gale arofe; the vapour toft
(The fport of winds) in air was lost ;
The glorious orb the day refines.
Thus envy breaks, thus merit fhines.

FABLE

A

FABLE XXIX.

The Fox at the point of death.

Fox, in life's extreme decay,

Weak, fick, and faint, expiring lay;
All appetite had left his maw,
And age difarm'd his mumbling jaw.
His num'rous race around him stand
To learn their dying fire's command:
He rais'd his head with whining moan,
And thus was heard the feeble tone.

Ah, fons from evil ways depart;
My crimes lie heavy on my heart.
See, fee, the murder'd geefe appear!
Why are those bleeding turkeys there ?
Why all around this cackling train,
Who haunt my ears for chickens flain?

The hungry Foxes round them star'd,
And for the promis'd feaft prepar'd.
Where, Sir, is all this dainty cheer?
Nor turkey, goofe, nor hen is here.
These are the phantoms of your brain,
And your fons lick their lips in vain.
O gluttons! fays the drooping fire,
Reftrain inordinate defire..
Your liqu'rish tafte you fhall deplore,
When peace of conscience is no more,

Does

Does not the hound betray our pace,
And gins and guns deftroy our race?
Thieves dread the fearching eye of pow'r,
And never feel the quiet hour.

Old age (which few of us fhall know)
Now puts a period to my woe.

Would you true happiness attain,
Let honefty your paffions rein?
So live in credit and esteem,
And the good name you loft, redeem.
The counfel's good, a Fox replies,
Could we perform what you advise.
Think what our ancestors have done:
A line of thieves from son to fon :
To us defcends the long difgrace,
And infamy hath mark'd our race.
Though we, like harmless sheep, should feed,
Honeft in thought, in word, and deed;
Whatever hen-rooft is decreas'd,

We shall be thought to fhare the feast.
The change shall never be believ'd.
A loft good name is ne'er retriev'd.
Nay, then, replies the feeble Fox,
(But hark! I hear a hen that clocks)
Go, but be mod'rate in

your

food;

A chicken too might do me good.

FABLE

FABLE XXX.

The SETTING-DOG and the PARTRIDGE.

THE ranging Dog the stubble tries,

He

And fearches every breeze that flies;
The scent grows warm; with cautious fear
creeps, and points the covey near.
The men, in filence, far behind,
Conscious of game, the net unbind.

A Partridge, with experience wife,
The fraudful preparation spies :

She mocks their toils, alarms her brood;
The covey springs, and feeks the wood;
But ere her certain wings she tries,
Thus to the creeping spaniel cries.
Thou fawning flave to man's deceit,
Thou pimp of luxury, fneaking cheat,
Of thy whole fpecies thou difgrace,
Dogs fhould difown thee of their race!
For if I judge their native parts,
They're born with open honeft hearts;
And, ere they ferv'd man's wicked ends,
Were gen'rous foes, or real friends.

When thus the dog with scornful smile:
Secure of wing, thou dar'ft revile.
Clowns are to polish'd manners blind;
How ign'rant is the ruftick mind!

My

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