THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL.
ALL upftarts, infolent in place,
Remind us of their vulgar race.
As in the fun thine of the morn
A Butterfly (but newly born)
Sate proudly perking on a rose,
With pert conceit his bofom glows
His wings (all glorious to behold)
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he difplays; the fpangled dew
Reflects his eyes and various hue.
His now-forgotten friend, a Snail,
Beneath his houfe, with flimy trail,
Crawls o'er the grafs; whom when he fpies,
In wrath he to the gardener cries :
"What means yon' peafant's daily toil,
From choaking weeds to rid the foil?
Why wake you to the morning's care?
Why with new arts correct the year?
Why grows the peach with crimfon hue?
And why the plumb's inviting blue?
Were they to feaft his tafte defign'd,
That vermin of voracious kind?
Crush then the flow, the pilfering race,
So purge thy garden from difgrace."
"What arrogance! the Snail reply'd; How infolent is upstart pride!
Hadft thou not thus, with infult vain,
Provok'd my patience to complain,
I had conceal'd thy meaner birth,
Nor trac'd thee to the fcum of earth:
For fcarce nine funs have wak'd the hours,
To fwell the fruit, and paint the flowers,
Since I thy humbler life survey'd,
In bafe, in fordid guife array'd;
A hideous infect, vile, unclean,
You dragg'd a flow and noisome train 3
And from your fpider-bowels drew
Foul film, and fpun the dirty clue.
I own my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and Snail fhall end.
And what's a Butterfly? at best
He's but a caterpillar dreft;
And all thy race (a numerous feed)
"Who deals in flander, lives in strife.
Art thou the herald of difgrace,
Denouncing war to all thy race?
Can nothing quell thy thunder's rage,
Which fpares nor friend, nor fex, nor age?
That vixen tongue of your's, my Dear,
Alarms our neighbours far and near.
Good Gods! 'tis like a rolling river,
That murmuring flows, and flows for ever!
Ne'er tir'd, perpetual discord sowing!
Like Fame, it gathers ftrength by going."
Heigh-day!" the flippant tongue replies,
"How folemn is the fool! how wife!
Is Nature's choiceft gift debarr'd ?
Nay, frown not; for I will be heard.
Women of late are finely ridden,
A Parrot's privilege forbidden !
You praise his talk, his fqualling fong;
But wives are always in the wrong."
Now reputations flew in pieces.
Of mothers, daughters, aunts, and nieces :
She ran the Parrot's language o'er,
Bawd, huffy, drunkard, flattern, whore;
On all the fex fhe vents her fury,
Tries and condemns without a jury.
At once the torrent of her words
Alarm'd cat, monkey, dogs, and birds :
All join their forces to confound her,
Pufs fpits, the monkey chatters round her ;
The yelping cur her heels affaults ;
The magpie blabs out all her faults;
Poll, in the uproar, from his cage,
With this rebuke outfcream'd her rage..
"A Parrot is for talking priz'd, But prattling women are despis'd.
She who attacks another's honour,
Draws every living thing upon her.
Think, Madam, when you stretch your lungs,
That all your neighbours too have tongues :
One flander muft ten thousand get;
The world with intereft pays the debt.
THE CUR AND THE MASTIFF.
A SNEAKING Cur, the master's fpy,
Rewarded for his daily lye,
With fecret jealoufies and fears *Set all together by the ears.
Poor Pufs to-day was in disgrace,
Another Cat fupply'd her place;
The Hound was beat, the Maftiff chid,
The Monkey was the room forbid;
Each to his dearest friend grew shy,
And none could tell the reason why.
A plan to rob the house was laid :
The thief with love feduc'd the maid,
Cajol'd the Cur, and stroak'd his head,
And bought his fecrecy with bread;
He next the Maftiff's honour try'd,
Whofe honest jaws the bribe defy'd ;
He ftretch'd his hand to proffer more;
The furly Dog his fingers, tore.
Swift ran the Cur; with indignation The Mafter took his information.
"Hang him, the villain's curs'd," he cries;
And round his neck the halter ties.
'But weigh the caufe of either fide.
Think not that treachery can be just ;
Take not informers' words on truft;
They ope their hand to every pay,
And you and me by turns betray."
He spoke; and all the truth appear'd':
The Cur was hang'd, the Maftiff clear'd.
THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL.
́S there no hope?" the fick man faid.
The filent Doctor fhook his head,
And took his leave with figns of forrow,
Defpairing of his fee to-morrow.
When thus the Man, with gasping breath; "I feel the chilling wound of Death.
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