The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And ev'ry stalk with odour bends.
A Rose he pluck'd, he gaz'd, admir'd,
Thus singing as the Muse inspir'd:
'Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envied place
With never-fading love!
There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die!
'Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there;
I see thy with'ring head reclin'd
With envy and despair!
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.'
'Spare your comparisons,' replied
An angry Rose, who grew beside:
'Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a Poet do without us?
In ev'ry love-song roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade?'
The Cur, the Horse, and the Shepherd's Dog.
THE lad of all-sufficient merit,
With modesty ne'er damps his spirit;
Presuming on his own deserts,
On all alike his tongue exerts;
His noisy jokes at random throws,
And pertly spatters friends and foes;
In wit and war the bully race
Contribute to their own disgrace.
Too late the forward youth shall find
That jokes are sometimes paid in kind;
Or if they canker in the breast,
He makes a foe who makes a jest.
A village-cur, of snappish race,
The pertest puppy of the place,
Imagin'd that his treble throat/
Was bless'd with music's sweetest note;
In the mid-road he basking lay,
The yelping nuisance of the way;
For not a creature pass'd along,
But had a sample of his song.
Soon as the trotting steed he hears,
He starts, he cocks his dapper ears;
Away he scours, assaults his hoof:
Now near him snarls, now barks aloof;
With shrill impertinence attends;
Nor leaves him till the village ends.
It chanc'd, upon his evil day,
A Pad came pacing down the way;
The Cur, with never-ceasing tongue,
Upon the passing trav'ller sprung.
The horse from scorn provok'd to ire,
Flung backward; rolling in the mire
The Puppy howl'd, and bleeding lay:
The Pad in peace pursu'd his way.
A Shepherd's Dog, who saw the deed,
Detesting the vexations breed,
Bespoke him thus: When coxcombs prate,
They kindle wrath, contempt, or hate;
Thy teazing tongue had judgment ty'd,
Thou hadst not like a puppy dy'd.'
FABLE XLVII.
The Court of Death.
DEATH, on a solemn night of state,
In all his pomp of terror sate;
Th' attendants of his gloomy reign,
Diseases dire, a ghastly train!
Crowd the vast court.
A voice thus thunder'd from the throne:
'This night our minister we name,
Let ev'ry servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this ebon wand.'
All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand.
Fever, with burning heat possess'd,
Advanc'd, and for the wand address'd:
'I to the weekly bills appeal,
Let those express my fervent zeal;
On ev'ry slight occasion near,
With violence I persevere.'
Next Gout appears with limping pace,
Pleads how he shifts from place to place;
From head to foot how swift he flies,
And ev'ry joint and sinew plies;
Still working when he seems suppress'd,
A most tenacious stubborn guest.
A haggard Spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due:
''Tis I who taint the sweetest joy,
And in the shape of love destroy:
My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face,
Prove my pretension to the place.'
Stone urg'd his ever-growing force. And next Consumption's meagre corse, With feeble voice that scarce was heard, Broke with short coughs, his suit preferr'd; 'Let none object my ling'ring way, I gain, like Fabius, by delay; Fatigue and weaken ev'ry fue By long attack, secure though slow.' Plague represents his rapid pow'r,
Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.
All spoke their claim, and hop'd the wand.
Now expectation hush'd the band,
When thus the Monarch from the throne:
'Merit was ever modest known.
What! no physician speak his right!
None here! but fees their toils requite.
Let then Intemp'rance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their zealous hand.
You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest
(Whom wary men, as foes detest),
Forego your claim, no more pretend:
Intemp'rance is esteem'd a friend;
He shares their mirth, their social joys,
And, as a courted guest destroys.
The charge on him must justly fall,
Who finds employment for you all.'
FABLE XLVIII.
The Gardener and the Hog.
A GARD'NER of peculiar taste,
On a young Hogʻhis favour plac'd;
Who fed not with the common herd;
His tray was to the hall preferr❜d.
He wallow'd underneath the board,
Or in his master's chamber snor'd;
Who fondly strok'd him ev'ry day,
And taught him all the puppy's play.
Where'er he went, the grunting friend
Ne'er fail'd his pleasure to attend.
As on a time, the loving pair
Walk'd forth to tend the garden's care,
The Master thus address'd the Swine:
'My house, my garden, all is thine.
On turnips feast whene'er you please,
And riot in my beans and peas;
If the potatoe's taste delight,
Or the red carrot's sweet invite,
Indulge thy morn and ev'ning hours,
But let due care regard my flow'rs:
My tulips are my garden's pride,
What vast expense those beds supply'd!'
The Hog by chance one morning roam'd Where with new ale the vessels foam'd. He munches now the steaming grains, Now with full swill the liquor drains, Intoxicating fumes arise;
He reels, he rolls his winking eyes;
Then stagg'ring through the garden, scours
And treads down painted ranks of flow'rs.
With delving snout he turns the soil,
And cools his palate with the spoil.
The master came, the ruin spy'd,
'Villain, suspend thy rage!' he cry'd;
'Hast thou, thou most ungrateful sot,
My charge, my only charge forgot?
What, all my flow'rs!!-No more he said,
But gaz'd, and sigh'd, and hung his head.
The Hog with stutt'ring speech returns;
'Explain, Sir, why your anger burns.
See there, untouch'd, your tulips strown,
For I devour'd the roots alone.'
At this the Gard'ner's passion grows;
From oaths and threats he fell to blows.
The stubborn brute the blow sustains;
Assaults his leg, and tears the veins.
Ah foolish swain! too late you find
That sties were for such friends design'd!
Homeward he limps with painful pace,
Reflecting thus on past disgrace:
"Who cherishes a brutal mate,
Shall mourn their folly soon or late.'
FABLE XLIX.
The Man and the Flea.
WHETHER on earth, in air, or main,
Sure ev'ry thing alive is vain!
Does not the hawk all fowls survey,
As destin'd only for his prey?
And do not tyrants, prouder things,
Think men were born for slaves to kings?
When the crab views the pearly strands,
Or Tagus, bright with golden sands;
Or crawls beside the coral grove,
And hears the ocean roll above;
Nature is too profuse,' says he,
Who gave all these to pleasure me !?
When bord'ring pinks and roses bloom,
And ev'ry garden breathes perfume:
When peaches glow with sunny dyes,
Like Laura's cheek, when blushes rise;
When with huge figs the branches bend,
When clusters from the vine depend;
The snail looks round on flow'r and tree,
And cries, All these were made for me!'
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