Are thofe poor fweepings of a groom,
That filthy fight, that naufeous fume,
Meet objects here? Command it hence;
A thing fo mean muft give offence."

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The humble Dunghill thus reply'd: "Thy master hears, and mocks thy pride:

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Infult not thus the meek and low;

In me thy benefactor know;

My warm affistance gave thee birth,
Or thou hadft perifh'd low in earth;
But up-ftarts, to fupport their ftation,
Cancel at once all obligation."

FABLE

XXXVI.

PYTHAGORAS AND THE COUNTRYMAN.

PYTHAGORAS rofe at early dawn,
By foaring meditation drawn ;

To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flowery fields he took his way.

In mufing contemplation warm,

His fteps mifled him to a farm,

Where on a ladder's topmoft round

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3

A peafant flood; the hammer's found

Shook the weak barn. "Say, friend, what care
Calls for thy honeft labour there?"

The Clown, with furly voice replies, "Vengeance aloud for juftice cries.

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This

This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hens' annoy, my turkeys' dread,
At length his forfeit life hath paid;
See on the wall his wings difplay'd:
Here nail'd, a terror to his kind,
My fowls fhall future fafety find;
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barns' refufe fat the breed."
"Friend, fays the Sage, the doom is wife

For public good the murderer dies:
But, if these tyrants of the air
Demand a fentence fo fevere,

Think how the glutton, man, devours;
What bloody feafts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,

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When thou, perhaps, carnivorous finner,
Hadft pullets yesterday for dinner!"

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"Hold, cry'd the Clown, with paffion heated,

Shall kites and men alike be treated?

When Heaven the world with creatures ftor'd,

Man was ordain'd their sovereign lord.”

"Thus tyrants boaft, the Sage reply'd,

Whose murders fpring from power and pride.
Own then this manlike kite is flain,

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Thy greater luxury to sustain;

For "Petty rogues fubmit to Fate,

"That great ones may enjoy their state *."

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Garth's Difpenfary.

FABLE

FABLE

XXXVII.

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

WHY

HY are thofe tears? why droops your head?
Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worfe difgrace betide?
Hath no one fince his death apply'd ?

Alas! you know the cause too well;
The falt is fpilt, to me it fell;
Then, to contribute to my lofs,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread !
Would I were fafe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next poft fome fatal news fhall tell :
God fend my Cornish friends be well!
Unhappy Widow, ceafe thy tears,

Nor feel affliction in thy fears;
Let not thy ftomach be suspended;

Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy defert I 'll read my Fable.

Betwixt her fwagging pannier's load
A Farmer's Wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summ'd up the profits of her ware ;
When, starting from her filver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her fcrcam.

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"That

"That Raven on yon' left-hand oak (Curfe on his ill-betiding croak!)

Bodes me no good." No more fhe faid,
When poor blind Ball, with ftumbling tread, 30
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs beftrow'd the way.
She, fprawling in the yellow road,

Rail'd, fwore, and curs'd. "Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whorefon throat!

I knew misfortune in the note."

"Dame, quoth the Raven, fpare your oaths, Unclench your fift, and wipe your cloaths.

But why on me thofe curfes thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own;

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40.

For, had you laid this brittle ware
On Dun, the old fure-footed mare,

Though all the Ravens of the Hundred

With croaking had your tongue out-thundered,
Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,

And you, good Woman, fav'd your eggs."

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THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

N other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their
Each little fpeck and blemish find;
To our own furonger errors blind.

eye,

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A Tur

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,

Forfook the barn, and fought the wood;

Behind her ran an infant train,

Collecting here and there a grain.

"Draw near, my Birds! the Mother cries, This hill delicious fare fupplies;

Behold the bufy negroe race,

See millions blacken all the place!
Fear not; like me with freedom eat;
An Ant is moft delightful meat.

How blefs'd, how envy'd, were our life,
Could we but 'fcape the poulterer's knife!
But man, curs'd man, on Turkeys preys,
And Christmas fhortens all our days.
Sometimes with oyfters we combine,
Sometimes affift the favoury chine;
From the low peafant to the lord,
The Turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for gluttony are curs'd,
Of the feven deadly fins the worfst."

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach, Thus anfwer'd from the neighbouring beech : "Ere you remark another's fin,

Bid thy own confcience look within;

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Control thy more voracious bill,

Nor for a breakfast nations kill."

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FABLE