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Than all the hungry insect race

Combin'd can in an age deface.

O'erheard the vile aspersion cast.

Fortune, by chance, who near him past,

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Why, Pan, (says he) what's all this rant?

'Tis ev'ry country-bubble's cant,

Am I the patroness of vice?

Is't I who cog or palm the dice?
Did I the shuffling art reveal,
To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all th' employments men pursue,
I mind the least what gamesters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One now and then my conduct trust.
I blame the fool, for what can I,
When ninety-nine my pow'r defy?
These trust alone their fingers' ends,
And not one stake on me depends.
Whene'er the gaming-board is set,
Two classes of mankind are met;
But if we count the greedy race,
The knaves fill up the greater space.
'Tis a gross error held in schools
That Fortune always favours fools.
In play it never bears dispute;

That doctrine these fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me such rancour show?
'Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.

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FABLE X.

THE DEGENERATE BEES.

To the Rev. Dr. Swift, Dean of St. Patrick's.

THOUGH
HOUGH Courts the practice disallow,

A friend at all times I'll avow.

In politics I know 'tis wrong;
A friendship may be kept too long;
And what they call the prudent part,
Is to wear int'rest next the heart.
As the times take a different face,
Old friendships should to new give place.

I know, too, you have many foes,
That owning you is sharing those;
That ev'ry knave in ev'ry station,
Of high and low denomination,

For what you speak, and what you write,
Dread you at once, and bear you spite.
Such freedoms in your works are shown,
They cann't enjoy what's not their own.
All dunces, too, in church and state,
In frothy nonsense show their hate;
With all the petty scribbling crew,
(And those pert sorts are not a few)
'Gainst you and Pope their envy spurt.
The booksellers alone are hurt.

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Good Gods! by what a pow'rful race

(For blockheads may have pow'r and place)
Are scandals rais'd, and libels writ,

To prove your honesty and wit!
Think with yourself: those worthy men,
You know have suffer'd by your pen;

From them you've nothing but your due.

From hence, 'tis plain, your friends are few.
Except myself, I know of none,
Besides the wise and good alone,
To set the case in fairer light,
My Fable shall the rest recite.
Which, (tho' unlike our present state)
I for the moral's sake relate.

A Bee of cunning, not of parts,
Luxurious, negligent of arts,
Rapacious, arrogant, and vain,
Greedy of pow'r but more of gain,
Corruption sow'd throughout the hive;
By petty rogues the great ones thrive.

As pow'r and wealth his views supply'd,
'Twas seen in overbearing pride.
With him loud impudence had merit;
The Bee of conscience wanted spirit;
And those who follow'd honour's rules
Were laugh'd to scorn for squeamish fools.
Wealth claim'd distinction, favour, grace,
And poverty alone was base.

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He treated industry with slight,

Unless he found his profit by't.
Rights, laws, and liberties, gave way,
To bring his selfish schemes in play.
The swarm forgot the common toil,
To share the gleanings of his spoil.
While vulgar souls, of narrow parts,
Waste life in low mechanic arts,
Let us (says he) to genius born,
The drudg'ry of our fathers scorn.

The Wasp and drone, you must agree,
Live with more elegance than we.
Like gentlemen they sport and play;
No bus'ness interrupts the day:
Their hours to luxury they give,
And nobly on their neighbours live.
A stubborn Bee, among the swarm,
With honest indignation warm,
Thus from his cell with zeal reply'd:

I slight thy frowns, and hate thy pride.
The laws our native rights protect;
Offending thee, I those respect.
Shall luxury corrupt the hive,
And none against the torrent strive?
Exert the honour of your race;
He builds his rise on your disgrace.
'Tis industry our state maintains:
'Twas honest toil and honest gains,

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That rais'd our sires to pow'r and fame.
Be virtuous; save yourselves from shame.
Know that, in selfish ends pursuing,

You scramble for the public ruin.

He spoke; and from his cell dismiss'd,
Was insolently scoff'd and hiss'd.
With him a friend or two resign'd,

Disdaining the degen'rate kind.

These Drones, (says he) these insects vile,
(I treat them in their proper style)
May for a time oppress the state:
They own our virtue by their hate;
By that our merits they reveal,
And recommend our public zeal;
Disgrac'd by this, corrupted crew,
We're honour'd by the virtuous few..

FABLE XI.

THE PACKHORSE AND THE CARRIER.

To a young Nobleman.

BEGIN, my Lord, in early youth,

To suffer, nay, encourage truth;
And blame me not for disrespect,
If I the flatt'rer's style reject;

With that, by menial tongues supply'd,
You're daily cocker'd up in pride.

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