XXIV. The OLD WOMAN and her CATS.

WH

7HO friendship with a knave hath made,
Is deem'd a partner in the trade;
The matron, who conducts abroad
A willing nymph is deemed a bawd;
And if a modeft girl is feen

With one who cures a lover's spleen,
We guess her not extremely nice,
And only wish to know her price.
'Tis thus that on the choice of friends
Our good or evil name depends.

A wrinkled hag, of wicked fame,
Befide a little fmoaky flame

Sat hov'ring, pinch'd with age and froft;
Her fhrivell'd hands, with veins emboss'd,
Upon her knees her weight fuftains,
While palfy fhook her crazy brains;
She mumbles forth her backward pray'rs,
An untam'd fcold of fourfcore years.
About her fwarm'd a num'rous brood
Of Cats, who lank with hunger mew'd:
Teaz'd with their cries, her choler grew,
And thus fhe fplutter'd: Hence ye crew!
Fool that I was! to entertain

Such imps, fuch fiends,-a hellish train!
Had you been never hous'd and nurst,
I for a witch had ne'er been curft:
To you I owe, that crowds of boys
Worry me with eternal noise;

Straws laid across my pace retard,

The horseshoe's nail'd, (each threshold's guard)
The ftunted broom the wenches hide,

For fear that I fhould up and ride;
They ftick with pins my bleeding feat,
And bid me fhew my fecret teat.

To hear you prate would vex a faint,
Who hath most reafon of complaint ?

Re

Replies a Cat. Let's come to proof.
Had we never ftarv'd beneath your roof,
We had, like others of our race,

In credit liv'd, as beafts of chace.

"Tis infamy to ferve a hag;

Cats are thought imps, her broom a nag;
And boys againft our lives combine,
Becaufe, 'tis faid, your Cats have nine.

A

XXV.

The BUTTERFLY and the SNAIL.

LL upftarts, infolent in place,
Remind us of their vulgar race.
As, in the funfhine 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 tail,
Crawls o'er the grafs; whom when he fpies,
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 glows the peach with crimson hue?
And why the plumb's inviting blue?
Were they to feaft his tafte defign'd,
That vermin of voracious kind?
Crufh then the flow, the pilf'ring race,
So purge thy garden from difgrace.

What arrogance! the Snail reply'd,
How infolent his upftart pride!

Hadft

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 flow'rs,
Since I thy humbler life furvey'd,
In bafe and fordid guife 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, fnail fhall I 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.

XXVI. The SCOLD and the PARROT.

HE hufband thus reprov'd his wife,

TH Who deals in flander, lives in ftrife:

Art thou the herald of difgrace,
Denouncing war to all thy race?

Can nothing quell thy thunder's rage,
Which fpares nor friend, nor fex, nor age?
That vixen tongue of yours, my dear,
Alarms our neighbours far and near;
Good Gods! 'tis like a rolling river,
That murm'ring flows, and flows for ever!
Ne'er tir'd, perpetual difcord fowing!
Like fame, it gathers ftrength by going.
Hey-day the flippant tongue replies,
How folemn is the fool! how wife!
Is Nature's choiceft gift debarr'd?
Nay, frown not, for I will be heard.

N

Women

Women of late are finely ridden,
A parrot's privilege forbidden!

You praife his talk, his fquawling fong,
But wives are always in the wrong.
Now reputation flew in pieces,
Of mothers, daughters, aunts, and neices.
She ran the parrot's language o'er.
Bawd, huffy, drunkard, flattern, whore:
On all the fex fhe vents her fury,
Tries and condemns without a jury.
At once the torrent of her words
Alarm'd cat, monkey, dogs, and birds;
All join their forces to confound her,
Pufs fpits, the monkey chatters round her;
The yelping cur her heels affaults,
The magpie blabs out all her faults;
Poll, in the uproar, from his cage,
With his rebuke out-fcream'd her rage:
A Parrot is for talking priz'd,
But prattling Women are defpis'd;
She who attacks another's honour,
Draws every living thing upon her.
Think, Madam, when you ftretch your lungs,
That all your neighbours too have tongues;
One flander must ten thousand get,
The world with int'reft pays the debt.

XXVII. The CUR and the MASTIFF.

Sneaking Cur, the mafter's fpy,
Rewarded for his daily lie,

With fecret jealoufies and fears
Set all together by the ears.
Poor Pufs to-day was in difgrace,
Another cat fupply'd her place;
The hound was beat, the mastiff chid,
The monkey was the room forbid;

Each

Each to his dearest friend grew fhy,
And none could tell the reason why.

A plan to rob the house was laid;
The thief with love feduc'd the maid,
Cajol'd the cur, and ftrok'd his head,
And bought his fecrefy with bread.
He next the Maftiff's honour try'd,
Whofe honest jaws the bribe defy'd;
He ftretch'd his hand to proffer more,
The furly dog his fingers tore.

Swift ran the Cur; with indignation
The mafter took his information.
Hang him the villain's curs'd! he cries,
And round his neck the halter ties.

The dog his humble fuit preferr'd,
And begg'd in juftice to be heard.
The mafter fat. On either hand,
The cited dogs confronting ftand ;
The Cur the bloody tale relates,
And, like a lawyer, aggravates.

Judge not unheard, the Maftiff cry'd,
But weigh the cafe of either fide:
Think not that treach'ry can be juft,
Take not informers' words on truft;
They ope their hand to every pay,
And you and me by turns betray.

He fpoke. And all the truth appear'd; The Cur was hang'd, the Maftiff clear'd.

XXVIII. 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 forrow,
Defpairing of his fee to-morrow.

When thus the Man, with gafping breath,
I feel the chilling wound of death:

N 2

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