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A box of charity she shows.
Blow here; and a church-warden blows.
'Tis vanish'd with conveyance neat,
And on the table smokes a treat.

She shakes the dice, the board she knocks,
And from all pockets fills her box.

She next a meagre rake addrest.
This picture see; her shape, her breast !
What youth, and what inviting eyes !
Hold her, and have her. With surprise,
His hand expos’d a box of pills,
And a loud laugh proclaim'd his ills.

A counter, in a miser's hand,
Grew twenty guineas at command.
She bids his heir the sum retain,
And 'tis a counter now again.

A guinea with her touch you see
Take ev'ry shape but Charity;
Anu not one thing you saw, or drew,
But chang'd from what was first in view.

The Juggler now, in grief of heart,
With this submission own'a her art:
Can I such matchless sleight withstand!
How practice hath improv'd your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng;
You ev'ry day, and all day long.

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FABLE XLIII.

THE COUNCIL OF HORSES.

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Upon a time a neighing steed, ·
Who graz'd among a num'rous breed,
With mutiny had fir'd the train,
And spread dissension thro’ the plain.
On matters that concern'd the state
The Council met in grand debate.
A Colt, whose eyeballs flam'd with ire,
Elate with strength and youthful fire,
In haste stępt forth before the rest,
And thus the list’ning throng addrest.

Good Gods! how abject is our race,
Condemn’d to slay’ry and disgrace!
Shall we our servitude retain,
Because our sires have borne the chain ?
Consider, Friends ! your strength and might;
'Tis conquest to assert your right.
How cumbrous is the gilded coach!
The pride of man is our reproach.
Were we design’d for daily toil,
To drag the ploughshare thro' the soil,
To sweat in harness thro' the road,
To groan beneath the carrier's load?
How feeble are the two-legg'd kind!
What force is in our nerves combin'd!

Gay.)

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Shall then our nobler jaws submit
To foam and champ the galling bit?
Shall haughty man my back bestride ?
Shall the sharp spur provoke my side ?
Forbid it, Heav'ns! Reject the reign;
Your shame, your infamy, disdain.
Let him the lion first controul,
And still the tiger's famish'd growl.
Let us, like thein, our freedom claim,
And make them tremble at our name,

A gen’ral nod approv'd the cause,
And all the circle neigh'd applause.

When, lo! with grave and solemn pace,
A steed advanc'd before the race,
With age and long experience wise;
Around he cast his thoughtful eyes,
And, to the murmurs of the train,
Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain.

When I had health and strength, like you,
The toils of servitude I knew;
Now grateful man rewards my pains,
And gives me all these wide domains.
At will I crop the year's increase;
My latter life is rest and peace.
I grant to man we lend our pains,
And aid him to correct the plains;
But doth not he divide the care
Thro' all the labours of the year?

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How many thousand structures rise
To fence us from inclement skies !
For us he bears the sultry day,
And stores up all our winter's hay.
He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain;
We share the toil and share the grain.
Since every creature was decreed
To aid each other's mutual need,
Appease your discontented mind,
And act the part by Heaven assign’d.

The tumult ceas’d. The Colt submitted,
And, like his ancestors, was bitted.

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FABLE XLIV.

THE HOUND AND THE HUNTSMAN.

Ímpertinence at first is borne:
With heedless slight or smiles of scorn;
Teas’d into wrath, what patience bears
The noisy fool who perseveres ?

The morning wakes, the Huntsman sounds,
At once rush forth the joyful Hounds;
They seek the wood with eager pace,
Thro' brush, thro' brier, explore the chase:
Now scatter'd wide, they try the plain,
And snuff the dewy turf in vain.
What care, what industry, what pains!
What universal silence reigns!

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Ringwood, a dog of little fame, Young, pert, and ignorant of game, At once displays his babbling throat; The pack, regardless of the note, Pursue the scent; with louder strain He still persists to vex the train.

The Huntsman to the clamour flies,
The smacking lash he smartly plies.
His ribs all welk’d, with howling tone
The puppy thus express'd his moan.

I know the music of my tongue
Long since the pack with envy stung.
What will not spite ? these bitter smarts
I owe to my superior parts.

When Puppies prate, the Huntsman cry'd,
They show both ignorance and pride,
Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise,
For envy is a kind of praise.
Had not thy forward noisy tongue
Proclaim'd thee always in the wrong,
Thou migh’st have mingled with the rest,
And ne'er thy foolish nose confest.
But fools, to talking ever prone,
Are sure to make their follies known.

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