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Oh! fie, the honeft Bee replied,
I fear you make base man your guide;
Of ev'ry creature fure the worst,
Though in creation's fcale the first !
Ungrateful man! 'tis strange he thrives,
Who burns the Bees to rob their hives !
I hate his vile administration,
And so do all the emmet nation.
What fatal foes to birds are men,
Quite to the Eagle from the Wren!
O! do not men's example take,
Who mischief do for mischief's fake;
But spare the Ant-her worth demands
Esteem and friendship at your hands,
A mind with ev'ry virtue bleft,
Must raise compassion in your breast.
Virtué! rejoin'd the fneering bird,
Where did you learn that Gothic word ?
Since I was hatch'd, I never heard
That virtue was at all rever'd.
But say it was the ancients claim,
Yet moderns difavow the name ;
Unless, my dear, you read romances,
I cannot reconcile
fancies. Virtue in fairy tales is feen To play the goddess or the queen;
But what's a queen without the pow'r ? Or
r beauty, child, without a dow'r ?
Yet this is all that virtue brags,
And beft 'tis only worth in rags.
whims: my yery
heart derides :
Trust me, Miss Bee to speak ihe truth,
I've copied men from earliest youth;
The fame our taste, the fame our school,
Passion and appetite our rule ;
And call me bird, or call me finner,
I'll ne'er forego my sport or dinner!
A prowling cat the miscreant fpies, And wide expands her amber eyes: Near and more near Grimalkin draws : She wags her tail, portends her paws ; Then, springing on her thoughtless prey, She bore the vicious bird away.
Thus, in her cruelty and pride, The wicked wanton Sparrow died,
W dull and how insensible a bealt
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest ! Philosophers and poets vainly strove In ev'ry age the lumpish mass to move : But those were pedants, when compar'd with these, Who know not only to inftru&t but please. Poets alone found the delightful way. Mysterious morals gently to convey In charming numbers; so that as men grew Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too. Satire has always shone among the rest, And is the boldest way, if not the belt, To tell men freely of their fouleft faults ; To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. In satire too the wise took diff'rent ways, To each deserving its peculiar praise. Some did all folly with just sharpness blame, Whilft others laugh'd, and scorn'd them into shame: But, of these two, the last succeeded beft, As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd ;
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd:
Against the grosseft follies they declaim ;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easer than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit :
Besides, 'tis labour loft ; for who would preacha
Morals to Armitrong, or duh Aston teach ?
'Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wifett mind;
That litttle speck which all the reft does spoily
To wash off that, would be a noble coil ;
Beyond the lopse-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage ;
Above all ceasure too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit ;
Who judging better, though concern'd the molte
Of such correction will have cause to boast,
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers too muft pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by: jeg
Like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoor,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so foon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear lisy
Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight ;
to yli) Of such a wretched rabble who would write ?
OR'U0:19 Much less half wits ; that's more against our rules:-ziudi For they are fops, the other are but fools,
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar ?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr ?
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knav'ry makes fo much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, biy thriving too, too faft,
Like Æsop's fox, becomes a prey at last,
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam’d,
Too ugly, or too easy to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other :
Yet saunt'ring Charles, between his beastly brace,
Meets with diffembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other sold him :
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep:
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
1152 Was ever prince by two at once milled, False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred ?