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ON MR. ELIJAH FENTON.

AT EASTHAMSTEAD IN BERKS, 1730.

THIS modeft ftone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly fay, Here lies an honest man:
A poet, bleft beyond the poet's fate,

Whom heav'n kept facred from the proud and great:
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,
Content with science in the vale of peace,
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfy'd,
Thank'd heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he dy'd.

ON MR. GAY.

IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1732.

OF

F manners gentle, of affections mild,
In wit, a man; fimplicity, a child :
With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age:

Above temptation in a low eftate,

And uncorrupted, ev'n among the great:
A fafe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd through life, lamented in thy end.
These are Thy honours! not that here thy buft
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy duft; 10
But that the worthy and the good fhall fay,
Striking their penfive bofoms-Here lies GAY.

5

FABLES.

BY JOHN GAY, ESQ.*

PYTHAGORAS AND THE COUNTRYMAN.

PYTHAG'RAS rofe at early dawn.
By foaring meditation drawn,
To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flow'ry fields he took his way;
In mufing contemplation warm,
His steps misled him to a farm,
Where, on a ladder's topmoft round,
A peasant stood; the hammer's found
Shook the weak barn. Say, friend, what care
Calls for thy honest labour there?

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The clown, with furly voice, replies,
Vengeance aloud for juftice cries:
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hen's annoy, my turkey's 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 safety find,

Born 1688; dyed 1732.

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My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn's refuse fat the breed.
Friend, fays the fage, the doom is wife;
For publick good the murd'rer dies:
But if these tyrants of the air.
Demand a sentence fo fevere,

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Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feasts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou, perhaps, carniv'rous 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 heav'n the world with creatures ftor'd, Man was ordain'd their fov'reign lord.

Thus tyrants boaft, the Sage reply'd, 35 Whose murders fpring from power and pride. Own then this manlike kite is flain

Thy greater luxury to fuftain;
For petty rogues fubmit to fate
That
great ones may enjoy their fate.

Garth's Dispensary,

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THE POET AND THE ROSE.

I

HATE the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame.

Thus prudes by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own:
Thus fcribblers, covetous of praise,
Think flander can tranfplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decry'd.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Muft call her fifter awkward creature ;
For the kind flatt'ry's fure to charm,
When we fome other nymph disarm.

As in the cool of early day
A Poet fought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant treat ascends,
And ev'ry stalk with odour bends:
A rose he pluck'd, he gaz'd, admir'd,
Thus finging, as the Muse inspir'd.

Go, Rofe, my Chloe's bofom grace:
How happy fhould I prove,
Might I fupply that envy'd place
With never-fading love!
There, phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die!

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