All private slander I detest,

I judge not of my neighbour's breast:
Party and prejudice I hate,

And write no libels on the state.

Shall not my Fable censure vice,
Because a knave is over nice?
And, lest the guilty hear and dread,
Shall not the decalogue be read?
If I lash vice in general fiction,
Is't I apply, or self-conviction?1
Brutes are my theme; am I to blame,
If men in morals are the same?
I no man call or ape or ass;

'Tis his own conscience holds the glass.
Thus void of all offence I write:

Who claims the fable, knows his right.
A shepherd's Dog, unskill'd in sports,
Pick'd up acquaintance of all sorts;
Among the rest, a Fox he knew:
By frequent chat, their friendship grew.
Says Reynard, ""Tis a cruel case,
That man should stigmatize 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 honest men and true.
Thus slander tries whate'er it can
To put us on the foot with man.
Let my own actions recommend;
No prejudice can blind a friend:

(1) "Let the gall'd jade wince!

'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all!"-SHAKSPEARE.

You know me free from all disguise;
My honour as my life, I prize."

By talk like this, from all mistrust
The Dog was cured, and thought him just.
As on a time the Fox held forth
On conscience, honesty, and worth,
Sudden he stopp'd; he cock'd his ear;
Low dropt his brushy tail with fear.
"Bless us! the hunters are abroad:

What's all that clatter on the road?"

"Hold," says the Dog, "we're safe from harm, 'Twas nothing but a false alarm:

At yonder town 'tis market-day;
Some farmer's wife is on the way;
"Tis so; I know her pyebald mare,
Dame Dobbins with her poultry-ware."
Reynard grew huff. Says he, "This sneer
From you I little thought to hear;
Your meaning in your looks I see:
Pray what's Dame Dobbins, friend, to me?
Did I e'er make her poultry thinner?
Prove that I owe the dame a dinner."
"Friend," quoth the Cur, "I meant no harm;
Then why so captious, why so warm?
My words, in common acceptation,
Could never give this provocation.
No lamb, for aught I ever knew,
May be more innocent than you."
At this, gall'd Reynard winced, and swore
Such language ne'er was given before.

"What's lamb to me? this saucy hint Shows me, base knave, which way you squint.

If t'other night your master lost
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 replied,
"The name is just, take either side;
Thy guilt these applications speak;
Sirrah, 'tis conscience makes you squeak."
So saying, on the Fox he flies:

The self-convicted felon dies.1

(1) The captiousness of guilt aping innocence, and of dishonesty paying the penalty of extreme sensibility, are well exposed here. It is one of the just punishments of knavery, ever to be exposed to the real or supposed taunts, of the most common observation, and, like the simile used by Lord Byron in another case, guilt"Views its own feather on the fatal dart,

And wings the shaft that quivers in its heart."

The simplest remark alarms it; the stroke of external circumstance echoes upon the bell of the guilty soul, and awakens it to the pangs of remorse. Hence wickedness is thin-skinned, and the abraded surface shrinks from the touch even of friendly association. "Quisque suos patimur manes," well observes Virgil, and the self-accused culprit needs no interpreter of shame beyond his own record, for,

to our thoughts what edicts can give law,

Ev'n you yourself to your own breast shall tell,

Your crimes, and your own conscience be your hell."--DRYDEN.

"Ugly guilt flies in the conscious face,

And man is vanquish'd, slain with bosom-war."-LEE.

TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

ERE I begin, I must 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 presume to mean our own.
If general morals seem to joke
On ministers, and such-like folk,

A captious fool may take offence,
What then? He knows his own pretence.1
I meddle with no state affairs,

But spare my jest to save my ears.
Our present schemes are too profound,
For Machiavel himself, to sound;
To censure 'em I've no pretension,
I own they're past my comprehension.
You say, your brother wants a place,
('Tis many a younger brother's case,)
And that he very soon intends

To ply the court, and teaze his friends.
If there his merits chance to find
A patriot of an open mind,

Whose constant actions prove him just
To both a king's and people's trust,
May he, with gratitude, attend,
And owe his rise to such a friend.

You praise his parts, for business fit,
His learning, probity, and wit;

But those alone will never do,

Unless his patron have 'em too.2

I've heard of times (pray God defend us!
We're not so good but he can mend us)
When wicked ministers have trod
On kings and people, law and God;
With arrogance they girt the throne,
And knew no interest but their own.

(1) The word is here used in the sense of "design," or "purpose," as in Shakspeare, Gentlemen of Verona, Act. iii. Sc. 1. Winter's Tale, Act iii. Sc. 2. (2) Interest beats merit at court, and a man is there judged, not by the qualifications, but by the names which he bears, wealth being the potentate, at whose nod, ministers bestow their gifts. "O nummi, vobis hunc præstat honorem!"

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