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Yet think not every paw withstands What hath prevail'd in human hands. A tempting turnip's silver skin

Drew a base Hog through thick and thin:
Bought with a Stag's delicious haunch,
The mercenary Wolf was stanch:
The Convert Fox grew warm and hearty,
A Pullet gain'd him to the party :
The golden pippin in his fist,
A chattering Monkey join'd the list.

But soon, expos'd to public hate,
The favourite's fall redress'd the state.
The Leopard, vindicating right,
Had brought his secret frauds to light.
As rats, before the mansion falls,
Desert late hospitable walls,

In shoals the servile creatures run,
To bow before the rising Sun.

The Hog with warmth express'd his zeal,
And was for hanging those that steal;
But hop'd, though low, the public hoard
Might half a turnip still afford.
Since saving measures were profest,
A lamb's head was the Wolf's request.
The Fox submitted, if to touch

A gosling would be deem'd too much.
The Monkey thought his grin and chatter
Might ask a nut, or some such matter.

"Ye hirelings! hence!" (the Leopard cries)
"Your venal conscience I despise.
He, who the public good intends,
By bribes needs never purchase friends.
Who acts this just, this open part,
Is propt by every honest heart.
Corruption now too late has show'd,
That bribes are always ill-bestow'd;
By you your bubbled master's taught,
Time-serving tools, not friends, are bought."

FABLE X.

THE DEGENERATE BEES.

TO THE REV. DR. SWIFT, Dean of St. PATRICK'S.

THOUGH Courts the practise disallow,

A friend at all times I'll avow.
In politics I know 'tis wrong;
A friendship may be kept too long;
And what they call the prudent part,
Is to wear interest next the heart.
As the times take a different face,
Old friendships should to new give place.
I know, too, you have many foes,
That owning you is sharing those;
That every knave in every station,
Of high and low denomination,

For what you speak, and what you write,
Dread you at once, and bear you spite.
Such freedoms in your works are shown,
They can't enjoy what's not their own.
All dunces, too, in church and state,
In frothy nonsense show their hate;
With all the petty scribbling crew,
(And those pert sots are not a few)
'Gainst you and Pope their envy spurt.
The booksellers alone are hurt.

Good gods! by what a powerful race
(For blockheads may have power and place)

Are scandals rais'd, and libels writ!
To prove your honesty and wit!
Think with yourself: those worthy men,
You know, have suffer'd by your pen.
From them you've nothing but your due.
From hence, 'tis plain, your friends are few.
Except myself, I know of none,
Besides the wise and good alone.
To set the case in fairer light,
My Fable shall the rest recite,
Which (though unlike our present state)

I for the moral's sake relate.

A Bee of cunning, not of parts,
Luxurious, negligent of arts,
Rapacious, arrogant, and vain,
Greedy of power, but more of gain,
Corruption sow'd throughout the hive:
By petty rogues the great ones thrive.

As power and wealth his views supply'd,
'Twas seen in overbearing pride.
With him loud impudence had merit;
The Bee of conscience wanted spirit;
And those who follow'd honour's rules
Were laugh'd to scorn for squeamish fools.
Wealth claim'd distinction, favour, grace,
And poverty alone was base.
He treated industry with slight,
Unless he found his profit by 't.
Rights, laws, and liberties, give way,
To bring his selfish schemes in play.
The swarm forgot the common toil,
To share the gleanings of his spoil.

"While vulgar souls, of narrow parts,
Waste life in low mechanic arts,
Let us," (says he) " to genius born,
The drudgery of our fathers scorn.
The Wasp and Drone, you must agree,
Live with more elegance than we.
Like gentlemen they sport and play;
No business interrupts the day:
Their hours to luxury they give,
And nobly on their neighbours live."
A stubborn Bee, among the swarm,
With honest indignation warın,
Thus from his cell with zeal reply'd:

"I slight thy frowns, and hate thy pride.
The laws our native rights protect;
Offending thee, I those respect.
Shall luxury corrupt the hive,
And none against the torrent strive?
Exert the honour of your race;
He builds his rise on your disgrace.
'Tis industry our state maintains;
'Twas honest toil and honest gains
That rais'd our sires to power and fame.
Be virtuous; save yourselves from shame
Know that, in selfish ends pursuing,
You scramble for the public ruin."

He spoke; and, from his cell dismiss'd,
Was insolently scoff'd and hiss'd.
With him a friend or two resign'd,
Disdaining the degenerate kind.

"These Drones," (says he)" these insects vile,
(I treat them in their proper style)
May for a time oppress the state:
They own our virtue by their hate;
By that our merits they reveal,
And recommend our public zeal;
Disgrac'd by this corrupted crew,
We're honour'd by the virtuous few.”

FABLE XI.

THE PACK-HORSE AND THE CARRIER.

TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN.

BEGIN, my lord, in early youth,
To suffer, nay, encourage truth;
And blame me not for disrespect,
If I the flatterer's style reject;
With that, by menial tongues supply'd,
You're daily cocker'd up in pride.

The tree's distinguish'd by the fruit.
Be virtue then your first pursuit ;
Set your great ancestors in view,
Like them deserve the title too;
Like them ignoble actions scorn;
Let virtue prove you greatly born.

Though with less plate their side-board shone,
Their conscience always was their own;
They ne'er at levees meanly fawn'd,
Nor was their honour yearly pawn'd;
Their hands, by no corruption stain'd,
The ministerial bribe disdain'd;
They serv'd the crown with loyal zeal,
Yet, jealous of the public weal,
They stood the bulwark of our laws,
And wore at heart their country's cause;
By neither place or pension bought,
They spoke and voted as they thought.
Thus did your sires adorn their seat;
And such alone are truely great.

If you the paths of learning slight,
You're but a dunce in stronger light.
In foremost rank the coward plac'd,
Is more conspicuously disgrac'd.
If you, to serve a paltry end,
To knavish jobbs can condescend,
We pay you the contempt that's due;
In that you have precedence too.

Whence had you this illustrious name?
From virtue and unblemish'd fame.
By birth the name alone descends;
Your honour on yourself depends:
Think not your coronet can hide
Assuming ignorance and pride.
Learning by study must be won;
'Twas ne'er entail'd from son to son.
Superior worth your rank requires;
For that mankind reveres your sires :
If you degenerate from your race,
Their merits heighten your disgrace.

A Carrier, every night and morn,
Would see his horses eat their corn:
This sunk the hostler's vails, 'tis true;
But then his horses had their due.
Were we so cautious in all cases,
Small gain would rise from greater places.

The manger now had all its measure;

He heard their grinding teeth with pleasure;
When all at once confusion rung;
They snorted, jostled, bit, and flung.

A Pack-horse turn'd his head aside,

Foaming, his eye-balls swell'd with pride

See scurvy Roan, that brute ill-bred,
Dares from the manger thrust my head!
Shall I, who boast a noble line,

On offals of these creatures dine?
Kick'd by old Ball! so mean a foe?
My honour suffers by the blow.
Newmarket speaks my grandsire's fame;
All jockeys still revere his name:
There, yearly, are his triumphs told,
There all his massy plates enroll'd.
Whene'er led forth upon the plain,
You saw him with a livery train;
Returning, too, with laurels crown'd,
You heard the drums and trumpets sound.
Let it then, sir, be understood,
Respect 's my due, for I have blood."
"Vain glorious fool!" (the Carrier cry'd)
"Respect was never paid to pride.
Know 'twas thy giddy wilful heart
Reduc'd thee to this slavish part,
Did not thy headstrong youth disdain
To learn the conduct of the rein?
Thus coxcombs, blind to real merit,
In vicious frolics fancy spirit.
What is 't to me by whom begot,
Thou restive, pert, conceited sot?
Your sires I reverence; 'tis their due,
But, worthless fool, what 's that to you?
Ask all the Carriers on the road,
They'll say, thy keeping 's ill bestow'd;
Then vaunt no more thy noble race,
That neither mends thy strength or pace.
What profits me thy boast of blood?
An ass has more intrinsic good.
By outward show let's not be cheated;
An ass should like an ass be treated."

FABLE XII.

PAN AND FORTUNE.

TO A YOUNG HEIR.

Soon as your father's death was known,
(As if th' estate had been their own)
The gamesters outwardly exprest
The decent joy within your breast.
So lavish in your praise they grew,
As spoke their certain hopes in you.

One counts your income of the year,
How much in ready money clear.

"No house," says he," is more complete;
The garden 's elegant and great.
How fine the park around it lies!
The timber's of a noble size.
Then count his jewels and his plate.
Besides, 'tis no entail'd estate.

If cash run low, his lands in fee

Are, or for sale or mortgage, free."

Thus they, before you threw the main,

Seem to anticipate their gain.

Would you, when thieves are known abroad, Bring forth your treasures in the road?

"Good gods!" (says he) " how hard 's my lot! Would not the fool abet the stealth,

Is then my high descent forgot? Reduc'd to drudgery and disgrace, (A life unworthy of my race)

Must I, too, hear the vile attacks

Of ragged scrubs and vulgar hacks?

Who rashly thus expos'd his wealth?
Yet this you do, whene'er you play
Among the gentlemen of prey.

Could fools to keep their own contrive,

On what, on whom, could gamesters thrive?

A

Is it in charity you game,

To save your worthy gang from shame?
Unless you furnish'd daily bread,
Which way could idleness be fed?
Could these professors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They must run bolder risks for prey,
And strip the traveller on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'scape the noose from year to year.
Consider, ere you make the bet,
That sum might cross your taylor's debt.
When you the pilfering rattle shake,
Is not your honour, too, at stake?
Must you not by mean lies evade
Tomorrow's duns from every trade;
By promises so often paid,

Is yet your taylor's bill defray'd?
Must you not pitifully fawn

To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?
This must be done. In debts of play,
Your honour suffers no delay;

And not this year's and next year's rent The sons of rapine can content.

Look round, the wrecks of play behold, Estates dismember'd, mortgag'd, sold! Their owners now, to gaols confin'd, Show equal poverty of mind.

Some, who the spoil of knaves were made,
Too late attempt to learn their trade.

Some, for the folly of one hour,
Become the dirty tools of power;
And, with the mercenary list,
Upon court charity subsist.

You'll find at last this maxim true,
Fools are the game which knaves pursue.
The forest (a whole century's shade)
Must be one wasteful ruin made:
No mercy's shown to age or kind;
The general massacre is sign'd.
The park, too, shares the dreadful fate,
For duns grow louder at the gate.
Stern clowns, obedient to the 'squire,
(What will not barbarous hands for hire?)
With brawny arms repeat the stroke;
Fall'n are the elm and reverend oak.
Through the long wood loud axes sound,
And Echo groans with every wound.

To see the desolation spread,
Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head :
His bosom now with fury burns;
Beneath his hoof the dice he spurns.
Cards, too, in peevish passion torn,
The sport of whirling winds are borne.

"To snails inveterate hate I bear, Who spoil the verdure of the year; The caterpillar I detest,

The blooming Spring's voracious pest;
The locust, too, whose ravenous band
Spreads sudden famine o'er the land.
But what are these? the dice's throw
At once hath laid a forest low.
The cards are dealt, the bet is made,
And the wide park hath lost its shade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,
And all its ancient glories waste.

All this" (he cries)" is Fortune's doing:
'Tis thus she meditates my ruin.
By Fortune, that false, fickle jade,
More havock in one hour is made,

Than all the hungry insect race,

Combin'd, can in an age deface."

Fortune, by chance, who near him past, O'erheard the vile aspersion cast.

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Why, Pan," (says she) "what 's all this rant? "Tis every country-bubble's cant. Am I the patroness of vice?

Is 't I who cog or palm the dice?
Did I the shuffling art reveal,

To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all th' employments men pursue,
I mind the least what gamesters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One now and then my conduct trust.
I blame the fool, for what can 1,
When ninety-nine my power defy?
These trust alone their fingers' ends,
And not one stake on me depends,
Whene'er the gaming-board is set
Two classes of mankind are met;
But, if we count the greedy race,
The knaves fill up the greater space.
'Tis a gross errour held in schools,
That Fortune always favours fools.
In play it never bears dispute;
That doctrine these fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me such rancour show?
'Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.
By me his late estate he won,
But he by Folly was undone."

FABLE XIII.

PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.

Of all the burthens man must bear, Time seems most galling and severe : Beneath this grievous load oppress'd, We daily meet some friend distress'd.

"What can one do? I rose at nine? "Tis full six hours before we dine: Six hours! no earthly thing to do! Would I had doz'd in bed till two!"

A pamphlet is before him spread,
And almost half a page is read;
Tir'd with the study of the day,
The fluttering sheets are toss'd away.
He opes his snuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns, and stretches in his chair.
"Not twenty, by the minute hand!
Good gods," says he, "my watch must stand!
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'd read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can't contrive to rise too late."

To make the minutes faster run,
Then, too, his tiresome self to shun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news, some scraps he reads.
Sauntering, from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe;

By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they share,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.

Says Tom, "Since all men must confess,
That time lies heavy, more or less,
Why should it be so hard to get,
Till two, a party at piquet?

Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wintry nights are borne.
Does not quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away."

My case," says Will," then must be hard,
By want of skill from play debarr'd.
Courtiers kill time by various ways;
Dependence wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose time ne'er stands !
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed shower,
The Park had wil'd away an hour.
At court, without or place or view,
I daily lose an hour or two:
It fully answers my design,

When I have pick'd up friends to dine;
The tavern makes our burthen light;
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At six (hard case!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From six till ten! unless in sleep,
One cannot spend the hours so cheap.
The comedy's no sooner done,
But some assembly is begun;
Loitering from room to room I stray,
Converse, but nothing hear or say:
Quite tir'd, from fair to fair I roam.
So soon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken slow-pac'd night,
Again my tavern-friends invite:
Here, too, our early mornings pass,
Till drowsy, sleep retard the glass."
Thus they their wretched life bemoan,
And make each other's case their own.

Consider, friends, no hour rolls on
But something of your grief is gone.
Were you to schemes of business bred,
Did you the paths of learning tread,
Your hours, your days, would fly too fast;
You'd then regret the minute past.
Time's fugitive and light as wind":
'Tis indolence that clogs your mind:
That load from off your spirits shake,
You'll own, and grieve for, your mistake.
A while your thoughtless pleen suspend,
Then read, and (if you can) attend.

As Plutus, to divert his care,
Walk'd forth one morn to take the air,
Cupid o'ertook his strutting pace.
Each star'd upon the stranger's face,
Till recollection set them right,
For each knew th' other but by sight.
After some complimental talk,

Time met them, bow'd, and join'd their walk.
Their chat on various subjects ran,

But most, what each had done for man.
Plutus assumes a haughty air,
Just like our purse-proud fellows here.

"Let kings," says he, "let cobblers tell,
Whose gifts among mankind excel.
Consider courts; what draws their train?
Think you 'tis loyalty or gain?
That statesman hath the strongest hold,
Whose tool of politics is gold;
By that, in former reigns, 'tis said,
The knave in power hath senates led:

By that alone he sway'd debates,

Enrich'd himself, and beggar'd states.
Forego your boast. You must conclude,
That's most esteem'd that's most pursued.
Think, too, in what a woeful plight
That wretch must live whose pocket's light.
Are not his hours by want deprest?
Penurious care corrodes his breast.
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His solitary day descends."

"You might," says Cupid, "doubt my parts,
My knowledge, too, in human hearts,
Should I the power of gold dispute,
Which great examples might confute.
I know, when nothing else prevails,
Persuasive money seldom fails;
That beauty, too, (like other wares)
Its price, as well as conscience, bears.
Then marriage (as of late profest)
Is but a money jobb at best.
Consent, compliance, may be sold;
But love's beyond the price of gold.
Smugglers there are, who, by retail,
Expose what they call love to sale;
Such bargains are an arrant cheat:
You purchase flattery and deceit.
Those who true love have ever try'd,
(The common cares of life supply'd)
No wants endure, no wishes make,
But every real joy partake.

All comfort on themselves depends;
They want nor power, nor wealth, nor friends.
Love, then, hath every bliss in store;
'Tis friendship, and 'tis something more.
Fach other every wish they give:
Not to know love, is not to live."

"Or love, or money," Time reply'd,
"Were men the question to decide,
Would bear the prize: on both intent,
My boon's neglected, or mis-spent.
'Tis I who measure vital space,
And deal out years to human race.
Though little priz'd, and seldom sought,
Without me love and gold are nought.
How does the miser time employ?
Did I e'er see him life enjoy?
By me forsook, the hoards he won
Are scatter'd by his lavish son.
By me all useful arts are gain'd:
Wealth, learning, wisdom, is attain'd.
Who then would think (since such my power)
That e'er I knew an idle hour?
So subtle and so swift I fly,

Love's not more fugitive than I.

Who hath not heard coquettes complain

Of days, months, years, mis-spent in vain ?
For time misus'd they pine and waste,
And love's sweet pleasures never taste.
Those who direct their time aright,
If love or wealth their hopes excite,
In each pursuit fit hours employ'd,
And both by time have been enjoy'd.
How heedless then are mortals grown!
How little is their interest known!
In every view they ought to mind me,
For, when once lost, they never find me.”
He spoke. The gods no more contest,
And his superior gift confest,

That Time (when truly understood) Is the most precious earthly good.

FABLE XIV.

THE OWL, THE SWAN, THE COCK, THE SPIDER, THE ASS, AND THE farmer.

TO A MOTHER.

CONVERSING with your sprightly boys, Your eyes bave spoke the mother's joys. With what delight I've heard you quote Their sayings in imperfect note!

I grant, in body and in mind Nature appears profusely kind. Trust not to that. Act you your part; Imprint just morals on their heart; Impartially their talents scan: Just education forms the man.

Perhaps (their genius yet unknown) Each lot of life's already thrown ;

That this shall plead, the next shall fight,
The last assert the church's right.
I censure not the fond intent;
But how precarious is th' event!
By talents misapply'd and crost,
Consider, all your sons are lost.

One day (the tale's by Martial penn❜d) A father thus address'd his friend: "To train my boy, and call forth sense, You know I've stuck at no expense; I've try'd him in the several arts; (The lad, no doubt, hath latent parts) Yet, trying all, he nothing knows, But, crab-like, rather backward goes. Teach me what yet remains undone; 'Tis your advice shall fix my son."

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Sir," says the friend, “I've weigh'd the matter; Excuse me, for I scorn to flatter:

Make him (nor think his genius checkt)
▲ herald or an architect."

Perhaps (as commonly 'tis known)
He heard th' advice, and took his own.
The boy wants wit; he's sent to school,
Where learning but improves the fool.
The college next must give him parts,
And cram him with the liberal arts.
Whether he blunders at the bar,
Or owes his infamy to war;
Or if by licence or degree
The sexton share the doctor's fee;
Or from the pulpit by the hour

He weekly floods of nonsense pour ;
We find (th' intent of Nature foil'd)
A taylor or a butcher spoil'd.

Thus ministers have royal boons
Conferr'd on blockheads and buffoons:
In spite of nature, merit, wit,
Their friends for every post were fit.

But now let every Muse confess
That merit finds its due success.
Th' examples of our days regard;
Where's virtue seen without reward?
Distinguish'd and in place you find
Desert and worth of every kind.
Survey the reverend bench, and see
Religion, learning, piety:
The patron, ere he recommends,
Sees his own image in his friend's.

Is honesty disgrac'd and poor?
What is 't to us what was before?
We all of times corrupt have heard,
When paltry minions were preferr'd;
When all great offices, by dozens,
Were fill'd by brothers, sons, and cousins.
What matter ignorance and pride?
The man was happily ally'd.
Provided that his clerk was good,
What though he nothing understood?
In church and state the sorry race
Grew more conspicuous fools in place.
Such heads, as then a treaty made,
Had bungled in the cobbler's trade.

Consider, patrons, that such elves
Expose your folly with themselves.
'Tis yours, as 'tis the parent's care,
To fix each genius in its sphere.
Your partial hand can wealth dispense,
But never give a blockhead sense.

An Owl of magisterial air,
Of solemn voice, of brow austere,
Assum'd the pride of human race,
And bore his wisdom in his face;
Not to depreciate learned eyes,
I've seen a pedant look as wise.

Within a barn, from noise retir'd,
He scorn'd the world, himself admir'd;
And, like an ancient sage, conceal'd
The follies public life reveal'd.

Philosophers of old, he read,
Their country's youth to science bred,
Their manners form'd for every station,
And destin'd each his occupation.
When Xenophon, by numbers brav'd,
Retreated, and a people sav'd,
That laurel was not all his own;
The plant by Socrates was sown.
To Aristotle's greater name
The Macedonian ow'd his fame.

Th' Athenian bird, with pride replete,
Their talents equall'd in conceit.
And, copying the Socratic rule,
Set up for master of a school.
Dogmatic jargon learnt by heart,
Trite sentences, hard terms of art,
To vulgar ears seem'd so profound,
They fancy'd learning in the sound.

The school had fame; the crowded place
With pupils swarm'd of every race.
With these the Swan's maternal care
Had sent her scarce-fledg'd cygnet heir:
The Hen (though fond and loath to part)
Here lodg'd the darling of her heart:
The Spider, of mechanic kind,
Aspir'd to science more refin'd:
The Ass learnt metaphors and tropes,
But most on music fix'd his hopes.

The pupils now, advanc'd in age,
Were call'd to tread life's busy stage;
And to the master 'twas submitted,
That each might to his part be fitted.

"The Swan," says he, "in arms shall shine;

The soldier's glorious toil be thine.

"The Cock shall mighty wealth attain : Go, seek it on the stormy main. "The court shall be the Spider's sphere: Power, fortune, shall reward him there.

"In music's art, the Ass's fame Shall emulate Corelli's name.”

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