Brother, fays Pug, and turn'd his head, The rabble's monft'roufly ill-bred.
Now thro' the booth rude hiffes ran,
Nor ended till the fhow began.
The tumbler whirls the flip-flap round,
With fommerfets he fhakes the ground;
The cord beneath the dancer fprings;
Aloft in air the vaulter fwings,
Distorted now, now prone depends,
Now thro' his twisted arms afcends;
The crowd, in wonder and delight,
With clapping hands applaud the fight.
With fmiles, quoth Pug, if pranks like these
The giant apes of reafon please,
How would they wonder at our arts!
They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I've feen you cling,
Play, twift, and turn in airy ring;
How can thefe clumfy things, like me,
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applaufe, we find
Thefe emulators of our kind
Difcern our worth, our parts regard,
Who our mean mimics thus reward.
Brother, the grinning mate replies,
In this I grant that man is wife,
While good example they pursue,
We must allow fome praife is due;
But when they ftrain beyond their guide,
I laugh to fcorn the mimic pride:
For how fantaftic is the fight,
To meet men always bolt upright,
Because we fometimes walk on two!
I hate the imitating crew.
Hoarfe-screaming from the circled crowd,
To the curs'd Maftiff cries aloud:
Both Hockley-hole and Mary-bone
The combats of my Dog have known;
He ne'er like bullies, coward-hearted,
Attacks in public, to be parted;
Think not, rafh fool, to fhare his fame,
Be his the honour or the fhame.
Thus faid, they fwore and rav'd like thunder,
Then dragg'd their faften'd Dogs afunder;
While clubs and kicks from every fide
Redounded from the Maftiff's hide.
All reeking now with fweat and blood
A while the parted warriors ftood,
Then pour'd upon the meddling foe;
Who worried, howl'd, and fprawl'd below:
He rofe, and limping from the fray,
By both fides mangled, fneak'd away.
XXXVI. The BARLEY-Mow and the DUNGHILL.
OW many faucy airs we meet
HOW
From Temple-Bar to Aldgate-street;
Proud rogues, who fhar'd the South-Sea prey,
And fprung like mushrooms in a day!
They think it mean to condescend
To know a brother or a friend;
They blush to hear their mother's name,
And by their pride expofe their shame.
As crofs his yard, at early day,
A careful farmer took his way,
He stopp'd, and leaning on his fork,
Obferv'd the flail's inceffant work;
In thought he measur'd all his store,
His geefe, his hogs, he number'd o'er;
In fancy weigh'd the fleeces fhorn,
And multiply'd the next year's corn.
A Barley-Mow, which stood befide,
Thus to its mufing mafter cry'd:
Say, good Sir, is it fit or right
To treat me with neglect and flight?
Me, who contribute to your cheer,
And raise your mirth with ale and beer!
Why thus infulted, thus difgrac'd,
And that vile Dunghill near me plac'd?
Are thefe poor fweepings of a groom,
That filthy fight, that naufeous fume,
Meet objects here? Command it hence:
A thing fo mean must give offence.
The humble Dunghill thus reply'd:
Thy mafter hears, and mocks thy pride;
Infult not thus the meek and low,
In me thy benefactor know;
My warm affiftance gave thee birth,
Or thou hadft perifh'd low in earth;
But upftarts, to fupport their station,
Cancel at once all obligation.
PYTHAGORAS and the COUNTRYMAN.
YTHAG'RAS 10fe at early dawn,
By foaring meditation drawn
To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Thro' flow'ry fields he took his way;
In mufing contemplation warm,
His fteps mifled him to a farm,
Where on the ladder's topmoft round
A peafant ftood; the hammer's found.
Shook the weak barn.
Say, Friend, what care
Calls for thy honeft labour there?
The Clown with furly Voice replies:
Vengeance aloud for justice cries!
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hens annoy, my turkeys dread,
At length his forfeit life hath paid;
See, on the wall his wings difplay'd,
Here nail'd, a terror to his kind,
My fowls fhall future fafety find,
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn's refufe fat the breed.
Friend, fays the Sage, the doom is wife,
For public good the murd'rer dies;
But if thefe tyrants of the air
Demand a fentence fo fevere,
Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feasts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might!
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite.
When thou perhaps, carniv'rous finner,
Hadft pullets yesterday for dinner!
Hold, cry'd the Clown, with paffion heated,
Shall kites and men alike be treated?
When heaven the world with creatures ftor'd,
Man was ordain'd their fov'reign lord.
Thus tyrants boaft, the Sage reply'd,
Whole murders fpring from power and pride;
Own then this manlike kite is flain,
Thy greater lux'y to fuftain:
For "petty rogues fubmit to fate,
"That great ones may enjoy their state."
The FARMER'S WIFE and the RAVEN,
HY 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 caufe too well,
The falt is fpilt, to me it fell;
Then to contribute to my lofs,
My knife and fork were laid acrofs,
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were fafe at home in bed!
Laft night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true!)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next poft fome fatal news fhall tell;
God fend my Cornifh 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.
And when the butler clears the table,
For thy defert I'll read my fable.
Betwixt her fwagging 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 starting from her filver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard to scream :
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 mafh'd eggs beftrew'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 thy 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-thunder'd,
Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,
And you, good Woman, fav'd your eggs.
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