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Swift as the short-liv'd Flow'r they fly,
At Morn they bloom, at Evening die :
Tho' Sickness yet a while forbears,
Yet Time destroys, what Sickness spares;
Now Helen lives alone in Fame,

And Cleopatra's but a Name;

Time must indent that heav'nly Brow,
And thou must be, what Helen's now.

This Moral to the Fair disclose,

Queen of Fragrance, lovely Rose.

WILLIAM BROOME.

FABLE VII

THE LYON, THE FOX, AND THE GEESE

A LYON, tir'd with State affairs,
Quite sick of pomp, and worn with cares,
Resolv'd (remote from noise and strife)
In peace to pass his latter life.

It was proclaim'd; the day was set;
Behold the gen'ral council met.
The Fox was Viceroy nam'd.

The croud

To the new Regent humbly bow'd;
Wolves, bears and mighty tygers bend,
And strive who most shall condescend.
He strait assumes a solemn grace,

Collects his wisdom in his face,

The croud admire his wit, his sense :

Each word hath weight and consequence;

The flatt'rer all his art displays :

He who hath power is sure of praise.
A fox stept forth before the rest,
And thus the servile throng addrest.

How vast his talents, born to rule,
And train'd in virtue's honest school!
What clemency his temper sways!
How uncorrupt are all his ways!

Beneath his conduct and command
Rapine shall cease to waste the land;
His brain hath stratagem and art,
Prudence and mercy rule his heart.
What blessings must attend the nation
Under this good administration !

He said. A Goose, who distant stood,
Harangu'd apart the cackling brood:
Whene'er I hear a knave commend,
He bids me shun his worthy friend.
What praise! what mighty commendation!
But 'twas a fox who spoke th' oration.
Foxes this government may prize
As gentle, plentiful and wise;

If they enjoy these sweets, 'tis plain,
We geese must feel a tyrant reign.
What havock now shall thin our race!
When ev'ry petty clerk in place,
To prove his taste, and seem polite,
Will feed on geese both noon and night.

JOHN GAY.

FABLE XXII

THE GOAT WITHOUT A BEARD

'Tis certain, that the modish passions
Descend among the croud, like fashions.
Excuse me then; if pride, conceit,
(The manners of the fair and great)
I give to monkeys, asses, dogs,

Fleas, owls, goats, butterflys and hogs.
say, that these are proud. What then?
I never said, they equal men.

I

A Goat (as vain as goat can be)
Affected singularity:

Whene'er a thymy bank he found,
He roll'd upon the fragrant ground,
And then with fond attention stood,
Fix'd, o'er his image in the flood.

I hate my frowzy beard, he crys;
My youth is lost in this disguise.
Did not the females know my vigour,
Well might they loath this rev'rend figure.
Resolv'd to smooth his shaggy face,
He sought the barber of the place.
A flippant monkey, spruce and smart,
Hard by, profest the dapper art ;
His pole, with pewter basons hung,
Black rotten teeth in order strung,
Rang'd cups, that in the window stood,
Lin'd with red rags, to look like blood,
Did well his threefold trade explain,
Who shav'd, drew teeth, and breath'd a vein.
The Goat he welcomes with an air,

And seats him in his wooden chair,
Mouth, nose and cheek the lather hides,
Light, smooth and swift the razor glides.
I hope your custom, Sir, says pug.
Sure never face was half so smug!

The Goat, impatient for applause,
Swift to the neighb'ring hill withdraws;
The shaggy people grinn'd and star'd.

Heighday! what's here? without a beard! Say, brother, whence the dire disgrace ? What envious hand hath robb'd your face? When thus the fop with smiles of scorn: Are beards by civil nations worn?

way,

Ev'n Muscovites have mow'd their chins.
Shall we, like formal Capucins,
Stubborn in pride, retain the mode,
And bear about the hairy load?
Whene'er we through the village stray,
Are we not mock'd along the
Insulted with loud shouts of scorn,
By boys our beards disgrac'd and torn?
Were you no more with goats to dwell,
Brother, I grant you reason well,
Replys a bearded chief. Beside,
If boys can mortify thy pride,

How wilt thou stand the ridicule
Of our whole flock? affected fool!
Coxcombs, distinguish'd from the rest,
To all but coxcombs are a jest.

JOHN GAY.

FABLE XXXVII

The FARMER'S WIFE and the RAVEN

WHY are those tears? Why droops your head?
Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worse disgrace betide ?
Hath no one since his death apply'd?
Alas! you know the cause too well.
The salt is spilt, to me it fell.
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across,
On friday too! the day I dread !
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heav'n 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell.
God send my Cornish friends be well!
Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears,
Let not thy stomach be suspended,
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended,
And when the butler clears the table
For thy dissert I'll read my fable.

Betwixt her swagging 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 silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream:
That raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak)

Bodes me no good. No more she said,
When poor blind Ball with stumbling tread

Fell prone; o'erturned the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.
She, sprawling in the yellow road,
Rail'd, swore and curst. Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!
I knew misfortune in the note.

Dame, quoth the Raven, spare your oaths,
Unclench your fist, and wipe your cloaths.
But why on me those curses thrown ?
Goody, the fault was all your own ;
For had you laid this brittle ware
On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,
Though all the Ravens of the Hunderd
With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd,
Sure-footed Dun had kept his legs,

And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs.

SONGS

JOHN GAY.

YOUTH'S the Season made for Joys,
Love is then our Duty,

She alone who that employs,

Well deserves her Beauty.
Let's be gay,

While we may,

Beauty's a Flower, despis'd in decay.

Let us drink and sport to-day,

Ours is not to-morrow.

Love with Youth flies swift away,

Age is nought but Sorrow.

Dance and sing,

Time's on the Wing,

Life never knows the return of Spring.

SLEEP, O Sleep,

With thy Rod of Incantation,

Charm my Imagination,

JOHN GAY.

Then, only then, I cease to weep.

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