1.Wootton in. B. Baron. f. A FABLE XXIX. The Fox at the point of death. FOX, in life's extreme decay, Weak, fick and faint, expiring lay; All appetite hath left his maw, And age difarm'd his mumbling jaw. His num'rous race around him stand To learn their dying fire's command; Ah fons, from evil ways depart, My crimes lie heavy on my heart. The hungry foxes round them star'd, Where, Sir, is all this dainty cheer? Your liqu'rish tafte you shall deplore, And gins and guns deftroy our race? Old-age, (which few of us fhall know) Now puts a period to my woe. Would you true happiness attain, Let honefty your paffions rein; So live in credit and esteem, And, the good-name you loft, redeem. Could we perform what you advise. And infamy hath mark'd our race. Though Though we, like harmless sheep, should feed, Honeft in thought, in word, and deed, Whatever hen-rooft is decreas'd, We shall be thought to share the feast. A loft good-name is ne'er retriev'd. (But, hark! I hear a hen that clocks) Go, but be mod'rate in your food; A chicken too might do me good. FABLE 1 4 |