XVII. The PIN and the NEEDLE.

Proficient in the toilette's duty,
Had form'd her fleeve, confin'd her hair,
Or given her knot a smarter air;
Now nearest to her heart was plac'd,
Now in her manteau's tail difgrac'd;
But could fhe partial Fortune blame,
Who faw her lover's ferv'd the fame?
At length from all her honours caft,
Through various turns of life the pafs'd;
Now glitter'd on a taylor's arm,
Now kept a beggar's infant warm,
Now, rang'd within a mifer's coat,
Contributes to his yearly groat;
Now rais'd again from low approach,
She vifits in the doctor's coach;
Here, there, by various fortune toft,
At laft in Gresham-hall was loft.
Charm'd with the wonders of the fhow,
On every fide, above, below,

She now of this or that enquires,
What leaft was understood admires;
'I'is plain, each thing fo ftruck her mind,
Her head's of virtuofo kind.

And pray, what's this, and this, dear Sir?
A Needle, fays the interpreter.
She knew the name. And thus the fool
Addrefs'd her as a taylor's tool :-

A Needle, with that filthy ftone,
Quite idle, all with ruft o'ergrown!
You better might employ your parts,
And aid the femftress in her arts.
But tell me how the friendship grew
Between the paltry flint and you?
Friend, fays the Needle, ceafe to blame,
I follow real worth and fame.
M

Know'ft

Know'st thou the loadstone's power and art,
That virtue virtues can impart ?
Of all his talents I partake;

Who then can fuch a friend forfake?
'I is I direct the pilot's hand,

To fhun the rocks and treach'rous fand;
By me the diftant world is known,
And either India is our own.

Had I with milliners been bred,
What had I been? the guide of thread;
And drudg'd as vulgar needles do,
Of no more confequence than you.

XVIII. The SHEPHERD'S DOG and the WOLF.

A

Wolf, with hunger fierce and bold,

Ravag'd the plains, and thinn'd the fold;
Deep in the wood fecure he lay,

The thefts of night regal'd the day:
In vain the shepherd's wakeful care
Had fpread the toils, and watch'd the fnare;
In vain the Dog purfu'd his pace,
The fleeter robber mock'd the chace.
As Lightfoot rang'd the foreft round,
By chance his foe's retreat he found.
Let us a while the war fufpend,
And reason as from friend to friend.
A truce, replies the Wolf? 'Tis done.
The Dog the parley thus begun :—

How can the ftrong, intrepid mind
Attack a weak, defencelefs kind?
Thofe jaws fhould prey on nobler food,
And drink the boar's and lion's blood;
Great fouls with gen'rous pity melt,
Which coward tyrants never felt :
How harmless is our fleecy care!
Be brave, and let thy mercy fpare.

i

Friend,

Friend, fays the Wolf, the matter weigh,
Nature defign'd us beafts of prey ;
As fuch, when hunger finds a treat,
'Tis neceffary Wolves fhould eat.
If mindful of the bleating weal,
Thy bofom burn with real zeal,
Hence, and thy tyrant lord befeech,
To him repeat the moving fpeech:
A Wolf eats sheep but now and then,
Ten thousands are devour'd by Men.
An open foe may prove a curfe,
But a pretended friend is worse.

XIX. The PAINTER, who pleafed No BODY and
EVERY BODY.

EST men fufpect the tale untrue,
Keep probability in view.

The trav'ler, leaping o'er thofe bounds,
The credit of his book confounds:
Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
Makes even his real courage doubted.
But flatt'ry never feems abfurd,

The flatter'd always take your word;
Impoffibilities feem juft,

They take the strongest praise on truft;
Hyperboles, tho' never fo great,
Will ftill come fhort of felf-conceit.
So very like a Painter drew,
That every eye the picture knew;
He hit complection, feature, air,
So juft, the life itself was there.
No flatt'ry with his colours laid,
To bloom restor'd the faded maid;
He gave each mufcle all its ftrength,
The mouth, the chin, the nofe's length;
His honeft pencil touch'd with truth,
And mark'd the date of age and youth.

He loft his friends, his practice fail'd:
Truth fhould not always be reveal'd;
In dufty piles his pictures lay,
For no one fent the fecond pay.
Two buftos, fraught with every grace,
As Venus' and Apollo's face,

He plac'd in view; refolv'd to please,
Whoever fat, he drew from these,
From these corrected every feature,
And fpirited each aukward creature.
All things were fet; the hour was come,
His pallet ready o'er his thumb,
My Lord appear'd, and feated right
In proper attitude and light,

The Painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece,
Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece,
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air.
Thofe eyes, my Lord, the fpirit there
Might well a Raphael's hand require,
To give them all their native fire;
The features fraught with fenfe and wit,
You'll grant are very hard to hit;
But yet with patience you fhall view
As much as paint and art can do.

Obferve the work. My Lord reply'd,
'Till now I thought my mouth was wide;
Befides, my nofe is fomewhat long,
Dear Sir, for me, 'tis far too young.
Oh pardon me, the artift cry'd,
In this we Painters muft decide:
The piece even common eyes must strike,
I warrant it extremely like.

My Lord examin'd it anew,
No looking-glafs feem'd half so true.

A Lady came, with borrow'd grace,
He from his Venus form'd her face;
Her lover prais'd the painter's art,
So like the picture in his heart!

To every age fome charm he lent,
Even beauties were almost content.

Thro' all the town his art they prais'd;
His cuftom grew, his price was rais'd.
Had he the real likeness shown,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.

H

XX. The LION and the CUB.

OW fond are men of rule and place,

Who court it from the mean and bafe!

Thefe cannot bear an equal nigh,
But from fuperior merit fly;

They love the cellar's vulgar joke,
And lofe their hours in ale and smoke;
There o'er fome petty club prefide,
So poor, fo paltry is their pride!
Nay, even with fools whole nights will fit,
In hopes to be fupreme in wit.
If thefe can read, to thefe I write,
To fet their worth in trueft light.
A Lion Cub, of fordid mind,
Avoided all the Lion kind;

Fond of applaufe, he fought the feafts
Of vulgar and ignoble beafts;
With affes all his time he spent,
Their club's perpetual prefident:
He caught their manners, looks, and airs,
An afs in every thing, but ears!
If e'er his highnefs meant a joke,
They grinn'd applaufe before he fpoke:
But at each word what fhouts of praife!
Good Gods! how natural he brays!
Elate with flatt'ry and conceit,
He feeks his royal fire's retreat;

M 3

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