For why? he lived in constant fear,
Lest truth by chance should interfere.
If any stranger dared intrude,

The noisy Cur his heels pursued;

Now fierce with rage, now struck with dread, At once he snarlèd, bit, and fled.

Aloof he bays, with bristling hair,

And thus in secret growls his fear:

"Who knows but Truth, in this disguise,
May frustrate my best-guarded lies?
Should she (thus mask'd) admittance find,
That very hour, my ruin's sign'd."

Now in his howl's continued sound,

Their words were lost, their voice was drown'd.

Ever in awe of honest tongues,

Thus every day he strain'd his lungs.
It happen'd, in ill-omen'd hour,
That Yap, unmindful of his power,
Forsook his post, to love inclin'd,
A favourite bitch was in the wind.
By her seduced, in amorous play,
They frisk'd the joyous hours away:
Thus by untimely love pursuing,
Like Antony he sought his ruin.

For now the Squire, unvex'd with noise,
An honest neighbour's chat, enjoys.
"Be free," says he, "your mind impart;
I love a friendly open heart.
Methinks my tenants shun my gate;
Why such a stranger grown of late?
Pray tell me what offence they find—
'Tis plain they're not so well inclined.

"Turn off your Cur," the Farmer cries,
"Who feeds your ear with daily lies.
His snarling insolence offends,-
"Tis he that keeps you from your friends.
Were but that saucy puppy checkt,
You'd find again the same respect.
Hear only him, he'll swear it too,
That all our hatred is to you:

But learn from us your true estate-
'Tis that cursed Cur alone, we hate."

The Squire heard Truth. Now Yap rush'd in,
The wide hall echoes with his din,

Yet Truth prevail'd; and, with disgrace,

The dog was cudgell'd out of place.1

(1) The severest satire in the whole English language, is that by Swift, in his voyage to Laputa (Gulliver's Travels), upon the choice of their favourites by princes. "The professors in the school of political projectors," he says, "appeared wholly out of their senses. These unhappy people were proposing schemes for persuading monarchs to choose favourites upon the score of their wisdom, capacity, and virtue; of teaching the ministers to consult the public good; of rewarding merit, great abilities, and eminent services; of instructing princes to know their own true interest, by placing it on the same foundation with that of their people; of choosing for employments, persons qualified to exercise them; with many other wild, impossible, chimeras, that never entered before, into the heart of man to conceive."

The whole of this caustic irony is an applicable commentary upon the fable, and not Swift's "madness, but its conscience speaks," when humanity acknowledges the truth of it. After all, the condition of a lying courtier is somewhat irksome, for not only is his position precarious, but his penalty severe, since every one may call him a rogue, and he cannot deny it.

HAVE

you

TO MYSELF.

a friend (look round and spy)

So fond, so prepossess'd as I?

Your faults, so obvious to mankind,

My partial eyes could never find.
When, by the breath of Fortune blown,
Your airy castles were o'erthrown,
Have I been ever prone to blame,
Or mortified your hours with shame?

Was I e'er known to damp your spirit,
Or twit you with the want of merit?
'Tis not so strange that Fortune's frown
Still perseveres to keep you down:
Look round, and see what others do.
Would you be rich and honest too?
Have you (like those she raised to place)
Been opportunely, mean and base?
Have you (as times required), resign'd
Truth, honour, virtue, peace of mind?
If these are scruples, give her o'er;
Write, practise morals, and be poor.1
The gifts of Fortune truly rate;
Then, tell me what would mend your state.
If happiness on wealth were built,
Rich rogues might comfort find, in guilt.
As grows the miser's hoarded store,
His fears, his wants, increase the more.

Think, GAY, (what ne'er may be the case,)
Should Fortune take you into grace,
Would that your happiness augment?
What can she give beyond content?

Suppose yourself a wealthy heir,
With a vast annual income clear!
In all the affluence you possess,
You might not feel one care the less.
Might you not, then, like others, find

With change of fortune, change of mind?

(1) Swift compares, in his Tale of a Tub, "honesty to an old pair of shoes cobbled out in the dirt."

"Thou knowest in the days of innocency Adam fell; and what shall poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of knavery?"-SHAKS. Hen. IV.

(1)

Perhaps, profuse beyond all rule,
You might start out a glaring fool;
Your luxury might break all bounds;
Plate, table, horses, stewards, hounds,
Might swell your debts; then, lust of play
No regal income can defray.

Sunk is all credit, writs assail,

And doom your future life to jail.

Or were you dignified with power,
Would that avert one pensive hour?
You might give avarice its swing,
Defraud a nation, blind a king;
Then from the hirelings in your cause,
Though daily fed with false applause,
Could it a real joy impart?-
Great guilt knew never joy at heart.
Is happiness your point in view?
(I mean th' intrinsic and the true).
She nor in camps nor courts, resides,
Nor in the humble cottage, hides;
Yet found alike in every sphere--
Who finds content, will find her there.1

"All happiness is seated in content."-OTWAY, C. Mar.
"We barbarously call those bless'd

Who are of largest tenements possess'd,

While swelling coffers break their owners' rest.

More truly happy those that can
Govern the little empire, man,

Bridle their passions, and direct their will,

Through all the glitt'ring paths of charming ill;

Who in a fix'd, unalterable state,

Smile at the doubtful tide of fate,

And scorn alike her friendship and her hate;
Who poison, less than falsehood, fear,
Loth to purchase life, so dear;

But kindly for their friend embrace their death,

And seal their country's love, with their departing breath."