DLE

p:73

FAB. XXXVI

p:15

FAB XXXVII

FABLE Xxxvi.

PYTHAGORAS and the COUNTRYMAN,

PYTHAGORAS rofe at early dawn,
By foaring meditation drawn,

To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flow'ry fields he took his way.
En mufing contemplation warm,
His fteps mifled him to a farm,
Where, on the ladder's topmoft round,
A peafant ftood; the hammer's found.

Shook the weak barn. Say, friend, what care
Calls for thy honeft labour there?

The Clown, with furly voice replies,.
Vengeance aloud for juftice cries.
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hens annoy, my turkeys dread,
At length his forfeit life hath paid;
See on the wall his wings difplay'd,
Here nail'd, a terror to his kind,
My fowls fhall future fafety find;
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn's refufe fat the breed..

Friend,

Friend, fays the Sage, the doom is wife;
For publick good the murd'rer dies.
But if these tyrants of the air
Demand a fentence fo fevere,

Think how the glutton, man, devours;
What bloody feafts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou perhaps, carniv'rous finner,
Hadft pullets yesterday for dinner!

Hold, cry'd the Clown, with paffion heated, Shall kites and men alike be treated?

When heav'n the world with creatures ftor'd,
Man was ordain'd their fov'reign lord.
Thus tyrants boaft, the Sage reply'd,

Whofe murders fpring from power and pride.
Own then this manlike kite is flain

Thy greater lux'ry to sustain;

For *" Petty rogues fubmit to fate,

"That great ones may enjoy their state."

* GARTH'S DISPENSARY.

FABLE

The FARMER'S WIFE and the RAVEN.
HY are those tears? why droops your head?

WHY

Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worfe difgrace betide?
Hath no one fince his death apply'd?
Alas! you know the caufe too well:
The falt is fpilt, to me it fell.
Then to contribute to my lofs,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were fafe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to heav'n 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next poft fome fatal news fhall tell.
God fend my Cornifh friends be well!
Unhappy widow, ceafe thy tears,

Nor feel affliction in thy fears.
Let not thy ftomach be fufpended;

Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And when the butler clears the table,
For thy defert, I'll read my fable.
Betwixt her fwagging pannier's load
A farmer's wife to market rode,

And,