He next the Maftiff's honour try'd, Whose honeft jaws the bribe defy'd. He stretch'd his hand to proffer more ; The furly dog his fingers tore.

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.

The Dog his humble fuit preferr'd,
And begg'd in justice to be heard.
The master fat. On either hand
The cited dogs confronting stand;
The Cur the bloody tale relates,
And, like a lawyer, aggravates.

Judge not unheard, the Mastiff cry'd, But weigh the cause of either fide. Think not that treach'ry can be just, Take not informers words on trust. They ope their hand to ev'ry pay, And you and me by turns betray.

He spoke. And all the truth appear'd,

The Cur was hang'd, the Mastiff clear'd.

FABLE

XXVII.

THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL.

S

Is there no hope? the fick man faid.

The filent doctor fhook his head,

And took his leave with figns of forrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

When thus the Man with gasping breath;
I feel the chilling wound of death:
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

The little portion in my hands,
By good fecurity on lands,
Is well increas'd. If unawares,
My juftice 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 heav'n and earth 'twill then be known, My charities were amply shown.

An Angel came. Ah friend! he cry'd, No more in flatt'ring 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

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 haste the fick man whines? Who knows as yet what heav'n designs? Perhaps I may recover ftill,

That fum and more are in my will.

Fool, fays the Vision, now 'tis plain, Your life, your foul, your heav'n was gain, From ev'ry 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 such hafte? fo groan'd and dy'd.

FABLE