He ftretch'd his neck; and from below
With ftretching neck advanc'd a foe:
With wrath his ruffled plumes he rears,
The foe with ruffled plumes appears :
Threat anfwer'd threat, his fury grew,
Headlong to met the war he flew.
But, when the watry death he found,
He thus lamented, as he drown'd;

I ne'er had been in this condition,
But for my mother's prohibition.

FABLE XXIV.

The BUTTERFLY and the SNAIL.

ALL upstarts, infolent in place,

Remind us of their vulgar race.

As, in. the fun-fhine of the morn,
A Butterfly (but newly born)
Sat proudly perking on a rofe;
With pert conceit his bofom glows;
His wings, (all glorious to behold),
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he difplays; the fpangled dew
Reflects his eyes, and various hue.

His now forgotten friend, a Snail,
Beneath his houfe, with flimy trail
Crawls o'er the grafs; whom when he 'spies,
In wrath he to the gard'ner cries:

What means yon peafant's daily toil,
From choaking weeds to rid the foil?
Why wake you to the morning's care?
Why with new arts correct the year?

Why

Why glows the peach with crimson hue?
And why the plum's inviting blue?
Were they to feaft his tafte defign'd,
That vermin of voracious kind?
Crush then the flow, the pilf'ring race;
So purge thy garden from difgrace.
What arrogance! the Snail reply'd;
How infolent is upftart pride!

Hadft thou not thus, with infult vain,
Provok'd my patience to complain,
I had conceal'd thy meaner birth,
Nor trac'd thee to the fcum of earth.
For fcarce nine funs have wak'd the hours,
To fwell the fruit, and paint.the flowers,
Since I thy humbler life furvey'd,

In bafe and fordid guise array'd;
A hideous infect, vile, unclean,
You dragg'd a flow and noifome train;
And from your fpider-bowels drew
Foul film, and fpun the dirty clue.
I own my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and fnail fhall end.
And what's a butterfly? At best,
He's but a caterpillar dreft:
And all thy race (a num'rous feed)
Shall prove of caterpillar breed.

I

FABLE

XXVII.

The SICK MAN and the ANGEL.

S there no hope? the fick Man faid.
The filent doctor fhook his head,
And took his leave with figns of sorrow,
Difpairing of his fee to-morrow.

When

When thus the Man, with gafping breath:
I feel the chilling wound of death.
Since I must bid the world adieu,
Let me my former life review.
I grant, my bargains well were made;
But all men over-reach in trade:
'Tis felf-defence in each profeffion.
Sure felf-defence is no tranfgreffion.
The little portion in my hands,`
By good fecurity on lands,
Is well increas'd. If unawares,
My juftice to myfelf and heirs,
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good fufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed,,
Reduc'd a family to need,

My will hath made the world amends,
My hope on charity depends.

When I am number'd with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,

By heav'n and earth 'twill then be known
My charities were amply fhown.

An Angel came.

Ah friend! he cry'd, No more in flatt'ring hope confide. Can thy good deeds in former times Outweigh the balance of thy crimes? What widow or what orphan prays To crown thy life with length of days? A pious action's in thy power, Embrace with joy the happy hour. Now, while you draw the vital air, Prove your intention is fincere. This inftant give a hundred pound, Your neighbours want, and you abound. But why fuch hafte? the fick Man whines; Who knows as yet what heav'n defigns?

Perhaps

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 gron'd and dy'd.

FABLE XXXVII.

The FARMER'S WIFE and the RAVEN.

WHY are thofe tears? why droops your
head?

Is then your other husband dead?
Or does a worfe difgrace betide?
Hath no one fince his death apply'd?
Alas! you know the cause too well.
The falt is fpilt, to me it fell.
Then to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread !
Would I were fafe at home in bed!
Laft night (I vow to Heav'n 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin few.
Next post some fatal news fhall tell.
God fend my Cornish friends be well!
Unhappy widow, ceafe thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears.
Let not thy ftomach be fufpended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;

B b

And

And when the butler clears the table,
For thy defert I'll read my fable.

Betwixt her swagging pannier's load
A farmer's wife to market rode.
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;
When, ftarting from her filver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her fcream.
That raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curfe on his ill-betiding croak)
Bodes me no good. No more fhe faid,
When poor blind Ball, with ftumbling tread,
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs beftrow'd the way.
She, fprawling in the yellow road,
Rail'd, fwore and curs'd. Thou croaking toad;
A murrain take thy whorefon throat!
I knew misfortune in the note.

Dame, quoth the Raven, fpare your oaths, Unclench your fift, and wipe your cloaths. But why on me thofe curfes thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own; For had you laid this brittle ware On Dun, the old fure-footed mare, Though all the Ravens of the hundred, With croaking had your tongue out-thun Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,

(der'd, And you, good woman, fav'd your eggs.

FABLE