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.

TH

XXVI. The SCOLD and the PARROT.

HE hufband thus reprov'd his wife,
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 spares 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.

A Sneaking Cur, the mafter's spy,

Rewarded for his daily lie,

With fecret jealousies 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 maftiff 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 houfe 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 just,
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 gasping breath,
I feel the chilling wound of death:

N 2

Since

Since I muft 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 myself 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 heaven and earth! 'twill then be known,
My charities are 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 Heaven defigns?
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 heaven was gain;.

From

From every 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 groan'd and dy'd.

XXIX. The PERSIAN, the CLOUD, and the SUN.

'S there a bard whom genius fires,

Whofe every thought the God infpires;
When Envy reads the nervous lines,
She frets, the rails, fhe raves, the pines;
Her hifling fnakes with venom fwell,
She calls her venal train from hell;
The fervile fiends her nod obey,
And all Curl's authors are in pay.
Fame calls up calumny and fpite;
Thus fhadow owes its birth to light..
As proftrate to the God of Day,
With heart devout a Perfian lay;
His invocation thus begun:

Parent of good, all-feeing Sun,
Prolific beam, whofe rays difpenfe
The various gifts of Providence,
Accept our praife, our daily prayer,
Smile on our fields, and bless the year..

A Cloud, who mock'd his grateful tongue,
The day with fudden darkness hung,
With pride and envy fwell'd, aloud
A voice thus thunder'd from the Cloud:
Weak is this gaudy God of thine, :

Whom I at will forbid to fhine;
Shall I nor vows nor incenfe know?
Where praife is due, the praise bestow..
With fervent zeal the Perfian mov'd,.
Thus the proud calamny reprov'd: