When you peruse the cleareft cafe, You fee it with a double face; For fcepticism's your profeffion; You hold there's doubt in all expreffion. 10 Your hand would have but paultry gleaning, Who dares presume to pen a deed, 'Tis drawn; and, to augment the cost, In dull prolixity engroft: And now we're well fecur'd by law, Till the next brother find a flaw. Read o'er a will. Was 't ever known Sagacious Porta's skill could trace 15 20 25 30 So monftrous-like the portrait's found, So, fir, I beg you, fpare your pains In making comments on my strains. I judge not of my neighbour's breast: 35 40 Party and prejudice I hate, And write no libels on the state. Shall not my fable cenfure vice, 45 Because a knave is over-nice? And, left the guilty hear and dread, Shall not the Decalogue be read? If I lash vice in gen❜ral fiction, Is 't I apply, or self-conviction? 50 Brutes are my theme. Am I to blame, If men in morals the fame? I no man call or ape or ass; 'Tis his own conscience holds the glass. By frequent chat their friendship grew. Says Renard, 'tis a cruel cafe, That man should stigmatize our race. 55 60 No doubt, among us rogues you find, By talk like this, from all mistrust Blefs us! the hunters are abroad: What's all that clatter on the road! 65 70 75 80 Hold, fays the Dog, we're free from harm: "Twas nothing but a false alarm. At yonder town 'tis market-day; Some farmer's wife is on the way : 'Tis fo, (I know her pyebald mare) Dame Dobbins with her poultry-ware. 85 Renard grew huff. Says he, This fneer From you I little thought to hear; Your meaning in your looks 1 fee. Pray, what's Dame Dobbins, friend, to me? Did I e'er make her poultry thinner? 95 Friend, quoth the Cur, I meant no harm; Then why fo captious? why fo warm? My words, in common acceptation, Could never give this provocation. No lamb (for ought I ever knew) May be more innocent than you." At this, gall'd Renard winc'd, and fwore Such language ne'er was giv'n before. 100 What's lamb to me? This faucy hint Shows me, base knave, which way you squint. If t' other night your master loft Three lambs, am I to pay the cost? Your vile reflections would imply 105 That I'm the thief. You dog, you lye. Thou knave, thou fool, (the Dog reply'd) The name is juft, take either fide; Thy guilt these applications fpeak: Sirrah, 'tis confcience makes you squeak. 110 So faying, on the Fox he flies: The felf-convicted felon dies. 5 WHY, Grubbinol, doft thou fo wistful feem? 10 * Dirge, or Dyrge, a mournful ditty, or fong of lamentation, over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Dirige in the Popish hymn, Dirige gressus meos, as fome pretend. But from the Teutonick Dyrke, laudare, to praise and extol. Whence it is possible their Dyrke, and our Dirge, was a laudatory fong to commemorate and applaud the dead.Cowell's Interpreter. |