FABLE XXXIV.

THOSE

The MASTIFFS.

HOSE who in quarrels interpose,
Muft. often wipe a bloody nose.

A Mastiff, of true English blood,
Lov'd fighting better than his food.
When dogs were fnarling for a bone,.
He long'd to make the war his own,
And often found (when two contend)
To interpofe obtain'd his end;

He glory'd in his limping pace;
The fcars of honour feam'd his face;:
In ev'ry limb a gafh appears,

And frequent fights retrench'd his ears.
As, on a time, he heard from far

Two dogs engag'd in noify war,

Away he fcours and lays about him,
Refolv'd no fray fhould be without him..
Forth from his yard a tanner flies,
And to the bold intruder criés.

A cudgel fhall correct your manners. Whence fprung this curfed hate to tanners?:

While on my dog you vent your spite,

Sirrah! 'tis me you dare not bite.

To fee the battle thus perplex'd,

With equal rage a butcher vex'd,
Hoarfe-fcreaming from the circled crowd,
To the curs'd Maftiff cries aloud.
Both Hockley-hole and Mary-bone
The combats of my Dog have known.
He ne'er, like bullies coward-hearted,

Attacks in public, to be parted.

Think not, rash fool, to share his fame;

Be his the honour or the shame.

Thus faid, they fwore, and rav'd like thunder ;;

Then dragg'd their faften'd dogs afunder;
While clubs and kicks from ev'ry fide.
Rebounded from the Maftiff's hide.

All reeking now with fweat and blood,
A while the parted warriors ftood,
Then pour'd upon the meddling foe;
Who, worried, howl'd and sprawl'd below..
He rofe; and limping from the fray,
By both fides mangled, fneak'd away.

FABLE

FABLE XXXV.

The BARLEY-Mow and the DUNG HILL.

How

many faucy airs we meet

From Temple-bar to Aldgate-ftreet ?

Proud rogues, who fhar'd the South-fea prey,

And fprung like mushrooms in a day!
They think it mean, to condefcend

To know a brother or a friend;

They blush to hear their mother's name,
And by their pride expose their shame.

As crofs his yard, at early day,
A careful farmer took his way,
He ftop'd, and, leaning on his fork,
Obferv'd the flail's inceffant work.
In thought he meafur'd all his ftore,
His geefe, his hogs, he number'd o'er;
In fancy weigh'd the fleeces fhorn,
And multiply'd the next year's corn.
A Barley-mow, which ftood befide,
Thus to its musing master cry'd.

Say

Say, good Sir, is it fit or right

To treat me with neglect and flight?
Me, who contribute to your chear,
And raise your Mirth with ale and beer
Why thus infulted, thus difgrac'd,

And that vile Dunghill near me plac'd?
Are those poor sweepings of a groom,
That filthy fight, that naufeous fume,
Meet objects here? Command it hence:
A thing fo mean muft give offence.
The humble Dunghill thus reply'd.
Thy mafter hears, and mocks thy pride:
Infult not thus the meek and low;
In me thy benefactor know;

My warm affiftance gave thee birth,
Or thou hadft perifh'd low in earth;
But upstarts, to fupport their station,
Cancel at once all obligation.

FABLE