66 Quo non præftantior alter "Ere ciere viros, Martemque accendere captu." A Party of huffars of late For prog and plunder fcour'd the plains, Some French Gens d'Armes furpriz'd, and beat, In doleful plight, th' unhappy bard Thefe hands, of flaughter innocent, To you or yours no hurt I meant, But the ftern foe, with generous rage, Who, urging others to engage, From fame and danger bafely fly. The brave by law of arms we fpare, Thou by the hangman fhalt expire; 'Tis juft, and not at all fevere, To stop the breath that blew the fire. VIRG. FABLE The Bald-pated WELSHMAN, and the FLY. Qui non moderabitur iræ, "Infectum volet effe, dolor quod fuaferit & mens, "Dum pœnas odio per vim feftinat inulto." HoR.. A Squire of Wales, whofe blood ran higher Than that of any other squire, He fum'd, he ravid, he curs'd, he fwore, At laft, fuch infults to evade, Sought the next tree's protecting fhade; Where, as he lay dissolv'd in sweat, Off in a pet the beaver flies, And flaxen wig, time's beft difguife, And courted the refreshing air, New perfecutions still appear, A noify fly offends his ear. Alas! what man of parts and fenfe Untrufs'd a point, fome authors tell. From infect of fo mean a race; And plotting vengeance on his foe, With double fift he aims a blow: The nimble fly escap'd by flight, Fell on his own beloved pate. Thus much he gain'd by this adventurous deed, MORAL. MORA L. Let fenates hence learn to preferve their state, And fcorn the fool, below their grave debate, Who by th' unequal ftrife grows popular and great. Let him buz on, with fenfelefs rant defy The wife, the good; yet still 'tis but a fly. With puny foes the toil's not worth the coft, F A B L E III. THE ANT AND THE FLY. "Quem res plus nimio delectavêre fecundæ, « Mutatæ quatient." HE careful ant that meanly fares, TH And labours hardly to fupply, With wholefome cates and homely tares, Upon a vifit met one day His coufin fly, in all his pride, HOR The The humble infect humbly bow'd, To fuch a huffing tearing blade. The haughty fly look'd big, and swore Friend Clodpate, know, 'tis not the mode On flies of rank and quality. I-who, in joy and indolence, Converfe with monarchs and grandees, Regaling every nicer fenfe With olios, foups, and fricafsees ; Who kifs each beauty's balmy lip, Or gently buz into her ear, About her fnowy bofom skip, And fometimes creep the Lord knows where! The ant, who could no longer bear Of confcious worth, he thus reply'd Vain infect! know, the time will come, When |