So monftrous like the portrait's found,
All know it, and the laugh goes round.
Like him I draw from gen'ral nature;
Is't I or you then fix the satire ?
So, Sir, I beg you spare your pains
In making comments on my ftrains.
All private flander I deteft,
I judge not of my neighbour's breaft:
Party and prejudice I hate,
And write no libels on the state.
Shall not my fable cenfure vice,
Because a knave is over-nice ?
And, left the guilty hear and dread,
Shall not the decalogue be read?
If I lash vice in gen'ral fiction,
Is't I apply, or felf-conviction ?
Brutes are my theme. Am I to blame,
If men in morals are the fame ?
I no man call an ape or afs:
'Tis his own confcience holds the glafs,
Thus void of all offence I write
Who claims the fable, knows his right.
A fhepherd's dog unfkill'd in fports, Pick'd up acquaintance of all forts:
Among the reft, a Fox he knew;
By frequent chat their friendship grew.
Says Reynard, 'Tis a cruel cafe,
That man fhould ftigmatise our race,
No doubt, among us rogues you find,
As among Dogs, and human kind;
And yet, (unknown to me and you)
There may be honeft men and true.
Thus flander tries, whate'er it can,
To put us on the foot with man,
Let my own actions recommend ;
No prejudice can blind a friend:
You know me free from all disguise ;
My honour as my life I prize.
By talk like this, from all mistrust
The Dog was cur'd, and thought him juft.
As on a time the Fox held forth On confcience, honefty, and worth, Sudden he ftopt; he cock'd his ear; Low dropt his brufhy tail with fear.
Blefs us! the hunters are abroad, What's all that clatter on the road?
Hold, fays the Dog, we're fafe from harm;
Twas nothing but a false alarm.
At yonder town, 'tis market day;
Some farmer's wife is on the way;
'Tis fo, (I know her pye-bald mare)
Dame Dobbins, with her poultry-ware.
Reynard grew huff. Says he, This fneer
From you I little thought to hear.
Your meaning in your looks I fee,
Pray, what's Dame Dobbins, friend, to me?
Did I e'er make her poultry thinner?
Prove that I owe th' Dame a dinner,
Friend, quoth the Cur, I meant no harm:
Then, why fo captious? why fo warm?
My words, in common acceptation,
Could never give this provocation.
No lamb (for ought I ever knew)
May be more innocent than you.
At this, gall'd Reynard winch'd and swore Such language ne'er was giv'n before.
What's lamb to me? the faucy hint.
Shew me, bafe knave, which way you fquint,
If t'other night your mafter loft
Three lambs, am I to pay the cost?
Your vile reflections would imply
That I'm the thief. You Dog, you lie.
Thou knave, thou fool, (the Dog reply'd)
The name is juft, take either fide ;
Thy guilt these applications speak;
Sirrah, 'tis confcience makes you fqueak.
So faying, on the Fox he flies,
The felf-convicted felon dies.
The VULTURE, the SPARROw, and other BIRDS.
TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.
ERE I begin, I muft premise
Our ministers are good and wise
So, though malicious tongues apply,
Pray what care they or what care I?
If I am free with courts; be't known,
I ne'er prefume to mean our own.
If general morals feem to joke
On minifters, and fuch-like folk,
A captious fool may take offence;
What then? he knows his own pretence.
I meddle with no state-affairs,
But fpare my jeft to fave my ears.
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