For ev'ry thing alive complain'd

That he the hardest life fuftain'd.

Jove calls his Eagle. At the word
Before him stands the royal bird.

The Bird, obedient, from heav'n's height
Downward directs his rapid flight;

Then cited ev'ry living thing,

To hear the mandates of his king.
Ungrateful creatures, whence arife
These murmurs which offend the skies;
Why this disorder? fay the caufe:
For just are Jove's eternal Laws.

Let each his difcontent reveal.

Το yon four dog I first appeal.

Hard is my lot, the hound replies.

On what fleet nerves the greyhound flies.

While I with weary step and flow

O'er plains and vales and mountains go;

The morning fees my chafe begun,

Nor ends it till the fetting fun.

When (fays the greyhound) I pursue,

My game is loft, or caught in view,
Beyond my fight the prey's fecure:
The hound is flow but always fure.

And, had I his fagacious fcent,

Jove ne'er had heard

my

discontent.

The lyon crav'd the fox's art;

The fox, the lyon's force and heart;

The cock implor'd the pidgeon's flight,
Whose wings were rapid, ftrong and light;
The pidgeon ftrength of wing defpis'd,
And the cock's matchless valour priz❜d:
The fishes wifh'd to graze the plain,
The beafts to skim beneath the main.

Thus, envious of another's ftate,

Each blam'd the partial hand of Fate.

The

The bird of heav'n then cry'd aloud.

Jove bids disperse the murm'ring croud:

The God rejects your idle

prayers.

Would ye, rebellious mutineers,

Entirely change your name and nature,

And be the very envy'd creature?
What, filent all, and none confent!

Be happy then, and learn content.
Nor imitate the restless mind,

And proud ambition of mankind.

A

FABLE V.

The WILD BOAR and the RAM.

GAINST an elm a fheep was ty'd,

The butcher's knife in blood was dy'd;

The patient flock, in filent fright,

From far beheld the horrid fight;

A

A favage Boar, who near them ftood,
Thus mock'd to fcorn the fleecy brood.

All cowards fhould be ferv'd like you.
See, fee, your murd'rer is in view;
With purple hands and reeking knife
He ftrips the skin yet warm with life;
Your quarter'd fires, your bleeding dams,
The dying bleat of harmless lambs
Call for revenge. O ftupid race!
The heart that wants revenge is base.
I grant, an ancient Ram replies,

We bear no terror in our eyes,
Yet think us not of foul fo tame,

Which no repeated wrongs inflame,
Infenfible of ev'ry ill,

Because we want thy tusks to kill.
Know, Those who violence pursue

Give to themselves the vengeance due,