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
Hence is the bar with fees fupply'd,
Hence eloquence takes either fide:

Your hand would have but paultry gleaning,
Could ev'ry man express his meaning.

Who dares presume to pen a deed,
Unless you previously are feed?

'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
But
you could make the will your own?
For, when you read, 'tis with intent
To find out meanings never meant.
Since things are thus, fe defendendo,
I bar fallacious inuendo.

Sagacious Porta's skill could trace
Some beast or bird in ev'ry face;
The head, the eye, the nose's shape,
Prov'd this an owl, and that an ape.
When, in the sketches thus defign'd,
Refemblance brings fome friend to mind,
You show the piece, and give the hint,
And find each feature in the print;

15

20

25

30

So monftrous-like the portrait's found,
All know it, and the laugh goes round.
Like him I draw from gen'ral nature:
Is't I or you then fix the fatire?

So, fir, I beg you, fpare your pains

In making comments on my strains.
All private flander I deteft,

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.
Thus void of all offence I write :
Who claims the fable, knows his right.
A fhepherd's Dog, unskill'd in sports,
Pick'd up acquaintance of all forts;
Among the rest a Fox he knew;

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,
As among dogs and human kind;
And yet (unknown to me and you)
There
may be honest men and true.
Thus flander tries whate'er it can
To put us on the foot with man.
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 juft.
As on a time the Fox held forth
On confcience, honefty, and worth,
Sudden he stopp'd; he cock'd his ear;
Low dropt his brushy tail with fear.

Blefs us! the hunters are abroad:

What's all that clatter on the road!

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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?
Prove that I owe the dame a dinner.

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?
There's forrow in thy look, if right I deem.
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;
From the tall elm a fhow'r of leaves is born,
And their loft beauty riven beeches mourn.
Yet ev❜n this season pleasance blithe affords,
Now the fqueez'd prefs foams with our apple hoards.
Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheery bowl,
Let cyder new wash forrow from thy foul.

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.