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.

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"Judge not unheard, the Maftiff cry'd,

But weigh the caufe of either fide.
Think not that treachery 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.

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35

"IS

FABLE

XXVII.

THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL.

there no hope?" the fick man said.

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.

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Since I must 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 justice 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 were amply fhown."

An Angel came. "Ah! Friend! he cry'd.

No more in flattering 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 designs?

Perhaps I may recover still.

That fum and more are in my will."

"Fool, fays the Vifion, now 'tis plain
Your life, your foul, your Heaven, was gain.
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.

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THE PERSIAN, THE SUN, AND THE CLOUD.

S there a bard whom genius fires,

Whofe every thought the God infpires?
When Envy reads the nervous lines,

She frets, the rails, the raves, the pines;
Her hiffing fnakes with venom fwell;
She calls her venal train from hell:
The fervile fiends her nod obey,
And all Curll's authors are in pay.
Fame calls up Calumny and Spite:
Thus fhadow owes its birth to light.

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As,

As, proftrate to the God of Day,
With heart devout, a Perfian lay,
His invocation thus begun:

"Parent of Light! all-feeing Sun!
Prolific beam, whofe rays dispense
The various gifts of Providence,
Accept our praife, our daily prayer;
Smile on our fields, and blefs 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 shine.
Shall I nor vows nor incenfe know?
Where praise is due, the praife bestow."
With fervent zeal the Perfian mov'd,
Thus the proud Calumny reprov'd.

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"It was that God who claims my prayer

Who gave thee birth, and rais'd thee there;

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When o'er his beams the veil is thrown,
Thy fubftance is but plainer fhown:
A paffing gale, a puff of wind,
Difpels thy thickeft troops combin’d.”
The gale arofe; the vapour toft
(The fport of winds) in air was lost;
The glorious orb the day refines.
Thus envy breaks, thus merit fhines.

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FABLE

[79]

A

FABLE

XXIX.

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH.

FOX, in life's extreme decay,

Weak, fick, and faint, expiring lay:
All appetite had left his maw,
And age difarm'd his mumbling jaw.
His numerous race around him ftand,
To learn their dying fire's command:
He rais'd his head with whining moan,
And thus was heard the feeble tone.
"Ah! Sons! from evil ways depart;
My crimes lie heavy on my heart.
Sec, fee, the murder'd Geefe appear!
Why are thofe bleeding Turkeys there?
Why all around this cackling train,
Who haunt my ears for chicken flain?"

The hungry Foxes round them star'd,
And for the promis'd feaft prepar'd.

"Where, Sir, is all this dainty cheer?
Nor Turkey, Goose, nor Hen, is here.
Thefe are the phantoms of your brain;
And your fons lick their lips in vain.”
"O Gluttons! fays the drooping Sire,
Reftrain inordinate defire.

Your liquorifh taste you shall deplore,
When peace of confcience is no more.

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15.

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