A FABLE.

T feems, an Owl, in days of yore,
Had turn'd a thousand volumes o'er.
His fame for literature extends,

And strikes the ears of partial friends.
They weigh'd the learning of the fowl,
And thought him a prodigious Owl!
From fuch applaufe what could betide ?
It only cocker'd him in pride.

Extoll'd for fciences and arts,

His bofom burn'd to fhew his parts;
(No wonder that an Owl of spirit,
Miftook his vanity for merit.)
He fhews infatiate thirft of praife,
Ambitious of the poet's bays.
Perch'd on Parnaffus all night long,

He hoots a fonnet or a fong;

And while the village hear his note,

They curfe the screaming whore-fon's throat.
Amidft the darknefs of the night,

Our feather'd poet wings his fight,

VOL. I.

H

And,

And, as capricious fate ordains,

A chimney's treach'rous fummit gains;
Which much impair'd by wind and weather,
Down fall the bricks and bird together.

The Owl expands his azure eyes,

And fees a Non-con's study rife;

The walls were deck'd with hallow'd bands
Of worthies, by th' engraver's hands;

All champions for the good old cause !
Whofe confcience interfer'd with laws;
But yet no foes to king or people,
Tho' mortal foes to church and steeple.
Baxter, with apoftolic grace,

Display'd his metzotinto face;

While here and there fome luckier faint

Attain'd to dignity of paint.

Rang'd in proportion to their size,
The books by due gradations rise.
Here the good Fathers lodg'd their trust;
There zealous Calvin slept in duft.
Here Pool his learned treasures keeps ;
There Fox o'er dying martyrs weeps;

5

While

While reams on reams infatiate drink
Whole deluges of Henry's ink.

Columns of fermons pil'd on high
Attract the bird's admiring eye.
Those works a good old age acquir'd,
Which had in manuscript expir'd;
For manuscripts, of fleeting date,
Seldom furvive their infant state.
The healthieft live not half their days,
But die a thousand various ways;
Sometimes ingloriously apply'd

To purposes the Muse shall hide.
Or, fhould they meet no fate below,
How oft tobacco proves their foe!
Or elfe fome cook purloins a leaf
To finge her fowl, or fave her beef;
But fermons 'scape both fate and fire,
By congregational defire.

Display'd at large upon the table
Was Bunyan's much-admir'd fable;
And as his Pilgrim sprawling lay,
It chanc'd the Owl advanc'd that way.

The bird explores the pious dream, And plays a vifionary scheme; Determin'd, as he read the fage,

To copy from the tinker's page.

The thief now quits his learn'd abode,
And scales aloft the footy road;

Flies to Parnaffus' top once more,
Refolv'd to dream as well as fnore;
And what he dreamt by day, the wight
In writing o'er, confumes the night.
Plum'd with conceit he calls aloud,
And thus befpeaks the purblind crowd;
Say not, that man alone's a poet,
Poets are Owls-my verse shall show it.
And while he read his labour'd lays,
His blue-ey'd brothers hooted praise.
But now his female mate by turns
With pity and with choler burns;
When thus her confort fhe addrefs'd,
And all her various thoughts express'd.

Why, prithee, husband, rant no more,

'Tis time to give thefe follies o'er.

Be

Be wife, and follow my advice
Go-catch your family fome mice.
'Twere better to resume your trade,
And spend your nights in ambuscade.
What! if you fatten by your schemes,
And fare luxuriously in dreams!
While you ideal mice are carving,
I and my family are ftarving.
Reflect upon our nuptial hours,
Where will you find a brood like our's?
Our offspring might become a queen,
For finer Owlets ne'er were seen!

'Ods-blue! the furly hob reply'd,

I'll amply for my heirs provide.

Why, Madge! when Colley Cibber dies,
Thou'lt fee thy mate a Laur'ate rife;

For never poets held this place,
Except defcendants of our race.

But foft-the female fage rejoin'd-
Say you abjur'd the purring kind;
And nobly left inglorious rats

To vulgar owls, or fordid cats.