What! fhall these lures bewitch my eye?
Shall they extort the murmuring figh?
Say, he enjoys fuperior wealth-

Is not my better portion, health?
Before the fun has gilt the fkies,
Returning labour bids me rife;
Obedient to the hunter's horn,
He quits his couch at early morn.
By want compell'd, I dig the foil,
His is a voluntary toil.

For truth it is, fince Adam's fall,
His fons must labour, one and all.
No man's exempted by his purse,
Kings are included in the curfe.

Wou'd monarchs relish what they eat?
'Tis toil that makes the manchet fweet;
Nature enacts, before they're fed,

That prince and peasant earn their bread.
Hence wisdom and experience show,
That blifs in equal currents flow;
That happiness is still the fame,

How'er ingredients change their name.

Nor

Nor doth this theme our fearch defy,

'Tis level to the human eye.
Distinctions, introduc'd by men,
Bewilder, and obfcure our ken.
I'll ftore thefe leffons in my heart,
And chearful act my proper part.
If forrows rife, as forrows will,
I'll ftand refign'd to every ill;
Convinc'd, that wifely every pack
Is fuited to the bearer's back.

That the Complaints of Mankind, against their feveral Stations and Provinces in Life, are often frivolous, and always unwarrantable.

FABLE VI.

The FARMER and the HORSE.

IS a vain world, and all things fhow it,

"I thought fo once, but now I know it."

Ah! GAY! is thy poetic page

The child of difappointed age?

Talk not of threefcore years and ten,
For what avails our knowledge then?
But grant, that this experienc'd truth
Were ascertain❜d in early youth;
Reader, what benefit would flow?
I vow, I'm at a lofs to know.

The world alarms the human breast,
Because in favage colours dreft.
'Tis treated with invective style,
And ftands impeach'd of fraud and guile.
All in this heavy charge agree-

But who's in fault-the world, or we?
The question's serious, short, and clear,
The answer claims our patient ear.
Yet if this office you decline-

With all my heart-the task be mine.

I'm certain, if I do my best,

Your candour will excufe the rest.

A Farmer, with a penfive brow,

One morn accompany'd his plow.
The larks their chearful matins fung,
The woods with anfwering mufic rung;

The

The fun display'd his golden ray,
And Nature hail'd the rifing day.
But ftill the peasant all the while
Refus'd to join the general fmile.
He, like his fathers long before,
Refembled much the Jews of yore;
Whose murmurs impious, weak, and vain,
Nor quails nor manna could restrain.
Did accidental dearth prevail?
How prone to tell his piteous tale!
Pregnant with joys did plenty rise?

How prone to blame indulgent skies!
Thus ever ready to complain,

For plenty finks the price of grain.

At length he spake :-Ye powers divine,

Was ever lot fo hard as mine?

From infant life an arrant flave,

Clofe to the confines of the grave.

Have not I follow'd my employ

Near threescore winters, man and boy?
But fince I call'd this farm my own,
What fcenes of sorrow have. I known!

3

Alas!

Alas! if all the truth were told,

Hath not the rot impair'd my fold?

Hath not the measles feiz'd my fwine?
Hath not the murrain slain my kine ?
Or fay that horfes be my theme,

Hath not the staggers thinn'd my team?
Have not a thousand ills befide

Depriv'd my stable of its pride?

When I furvey my lands around,

What thorns and thiftles fpread my ground!
Doth not the grain my hopes beguile,

And mildews mock the thresher's toil?

However poor the harvests past,

What fo deficient as the laft!

But tho' nor blafts, nor mildews rife,
My turnips are deftroy'd by flies;
My fheep are pin'd to fuch degree,

That not a butcher comes to me.

Seasons are chang'd from what they were,

And hence too foul, or hence too fair.
Now scorching heat and drought annoy,

And now returning fhowers destroy.

Thus