I KNOW you Lawyers can, with ease,
Twist words and meanings as you please;
That language, by your skill made pliant,
Will bend to favour every client;
That 'tis the fee directs the sense,
To make out either side's pretence.
When you peruse the clearest case,
You see it with a double face:

For scepticism is your profession;
You hold there's doubt in all expression.
Hence is the bar with fees supplied,
Hence eloquence takes either side.

Your hand would have but paltry gleaning, his meaning.

Could every man express
Who dares presume to pen a deed,
Unless you previously are fee'd?

'Tis drawn; and, to augment the cost,
In dull prolixity engross'd.

And now we're well secured by law,
Till the next brother find a flaw.

Read o'er a will. Was't ever known
But

you could make the will your own?
For when you read, 'tis with intent
To find out meanings never meant.
Since things are thus, se defendendo,
I bar fallacious inuendo.

Sagacious Porta's skill could trace
Some beast or bird in every face.
The head, the eye, the nose's shape,
Proved this an owl, and that an ape;
When, in the sketches thus design'd,
Resemblance brings some friend to mind,
You show the piece, and give the hint,
And find each feature in the print;
So monstrous-like the portrait's found,
All know it, and the laugh goes round.
Like him I draw from general nature;
Is't I or you, then, fix the satire ?—
So, Sir, I beg you spare your pains
In making comments on my strains.

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."

66

'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 aoraded 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.