Let my own actions recommend;
No prejudice can blind a friend:
You know me free from all disguise;
My honour as my life I prize.'
By talk like this, from all mistrust
The Dog was cur'd, and thought him just.
As on a time the Fox held forth
On conscience, honesty, and worth,
Sudden he stopp'd; he cock'd his ear;
Low dropp'd his brushy tail with fear.
'Bless us! the hunters are abroad!
What's all that clatter on the road?'
'Hold,' says the Dog, 'we're safe from harm, 'Twas nothing but a false alarm; At yonder town 'tis market-day: Some farmer's wife is on the way; 'Tis so (I know her pyebald mare), Dame Dobbins with her poultry-ware.' Reynard grew huff, Says he, 'This sneer From you I little thought to hear: Your meaning in your looks I see:
Pray what's dame Dobbins, friend, to me?
Did I e'er make her poultry thinner?
Prove that I owe the dame a dinner!'
'Friend,' quoth the Cur, 'I meant no harm,
Then why so captious? why so warm?
My words, in common acceptation,
Could never give this provocation.
No lamb (for aught I ever knew)
May be more innocent than you.'
At this, gall'd Reynard winc'd and swore Such language ne'er was giv'n before. 'What's lamb to me? This saucy hint Shews me, base knave, which way you squint. If t'other night your master lost
Three lambs, am I to pay the cost?
Your vile reflections would imply
That I'm the thief. You Dog, you lie !'
"Thou knave, thou fool,' the Dog reply'd, "The name is just, take either side: Thy guilt these applications speak; Sirrah, 'tis conscience makes you squeak!'
So saying, on the Fox he flies, The self-convicted felon dies.
The Vulture, Sparrow, and other Birds.
To a Friend in the Country.
ERE I begin, I must premise
Our ministers are good and wise;
So, though malicious tongues apply,
Pray, what care they, or what care I?
If I am free with courts, be 't known,
I ne'er presume to mean our own.
If gen'ral morals seem to joke
On ministers, and such-like folk,
A captious fool may take offence;
What then? He knows his own pretence.
I meddle with no state affairs,
But spare my jest to save my ears.
Our present schemes are too profound
For Machiavel himself to sound:
To censure 'em I've no pretension;
I own they're past my comprehension.
You say your brother wants a place
('Tis many a younger brother's case),
And that he very soon intends
To ply the court and teaze his friends.
If there his merits chance to find
A patriot of an open mind,
Whose constant actions prove him just
To both a king's and people's trust;
May he, with gratitude, attend,
And owe his rise to such a friend.
You praise his parts, for bus'ness fit,
His learning, probity, and wit:
But those alone will never do,
Unless his patron have 'em too.
I've heard of times (pray God defend us,
We're not so good but he can mend us)
When wicked ministers have trod,
On kings and people, law and God;
With arrogance they girt the throne,
And knew no int'rest but their own.
Then virtue, from preferment barr'd,
Gets nothing but its own reward.
A gang of petty knaves attend 'em,
With proper parts to recommend 'em.
Then if his patron burn with lust,
The first in favour 's pimp the first.
His doors are never clos'd to spies,
Who cheer his heart with double lies;
They flatter him, his foes defame,
So lull the pangs of guilt and shame.
If schemes of lucre haunt his brain,
Projectors swell his greedy train;
Vile brokers ply his private ear
With jobs of plunder for the year;
All consciences must bend and ply;
You must vote on, and not know why;
Through thick and thin you must go on;
One scruple, and your place is gone.
Since plagues like these have curs'd a land,
And fav'rites cannot always stand;
Good courtiers should for change be ready,
And not have principles too steady:
For should a knave engross the pow'r
(God shield the realm from that sad hour),
He must have rogues, or slavish fools:
For what's a knave without his tools?
Wherever those a people drain,
And strut with infamy and gain;
I envy not their guilt and state,
And scorn to share the public hate.
Let their own servile creatures rise,
By screening fraud, and venting lies:
Give me, kind Heaven, a private station,
A mind serene for contemplation:
Title and profit I resign;
The post of honour shall be mine.
My fable read, their merits view,
Then herd who will with such a crew.
In days of yore (my cautious rhymes
Always except the present times)
A greedy Vulture, skill'd in game,
Inur'd to guilt, unaw'd by shame,
Approach'd the throne in evil hour,
And step by step intrudes to pow'r;
When at the royal Eagle's ear,
He longs to ease the monarch's care.
The monarch grants. With pride elate,
Behold him minister of state!
Around him throng the feather'd rout;
Friends must be serv'd, and some must out.
Each thinks his own the best pretension;
This asks a place, and that a pension.
The Nightingale was set aside,
A forward Daw his room supplied.
This bird,' says he,' for bus'ness fit,
Hath both sagacity and wit.
With all his turns, and shifts, and tricks,
He's docile, and at nothing sticks.
Then with his neighbours one so free
At all times will connive at me.'
The Hawk had due distinction shewn,
For parts and talents like his own.
Thousands of hireling Cocks attend him, As blust'ring bullies to defend him.
At once the Ravens were discarded, And Magpies with their posts rewarded. 'Those fowls of omen I detest
That pry into another's nest.
State lies must lose all good intent;
For they foresee and croak th' event.
My friends ne'er think, but talk by rote,
Speak what they 're taught, and so to vote.'
'When rogues like these,' a Sparrow cries,
'To honours and employments rise,
I court no favour, ask no place;
For such preferment is disgrace.
Within my thatch'd retreat I find
(What these ne'er feel) true peace of mind.'
The Baboon and the Poultry.
To a Levee-Hunter.
WE frequently misplace esteem,
By judging men by what they seem.
To birth, wealth, pow'r, we should allow
Precedence, and our lowest bow.
In that is due distinction shewn,
Esteem is Virtue's right alone.
With partial eye we're apt to see
The man of noble pedigree.
We're prepossess'd my lord inherits
In some degree his grandsire's merits;
For those we find upon record:
But find him nothing but my lord.
When we, with superficial view,
Gaze on the rich, we're dazzled too.
We know that wealth, well understood,
Hath frequent pow'r of doing good:
Then fancy that the thing is done,
As if the pow'r and will were one.
Thus oft the cheated crowd adore
The thriving knaves that keep 'em poor.
The cringing train of pow'r survey:
What creatures are so low as they!
With what obsequiousness they bend!
To what vile actions condescend!
Their rise is on their meanness built,
And flatt'ry is their smallest guilt.
What homage, rev'rence, adoration,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry nation,
Have sycophants to pow'r address'd!
No matter who the pow'r possess'd.
Let ministers be what they will,
You find their levees always fill.
E'en those who have perplex'd a state,
Whose actions claim contempt and hate,
Had wretches to applaud their schemes,
Though more absurd than madmen's dreams.
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