Oh! fie, the honest Bee replied, I fear you make bafe man your guide; Of ev'ry creature fure the worst, Though in creation's fcale the first ! Ungrateful man! 'tis ftrange he thrives, Who burns the Bees to rob their hives! I hate his vile adminiftration,
And fo 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 fpare the Ant-her worth demands Efteem and friendship at your hands, A mind with ev'ry virtue bleft, Muft raise compaffion in your breaft. Virtue! 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 fay it was the ancients claim,
Yet moderns difavow the name ;
Unless, my dear, you read romances, I cannot reconcile your fancies.-
Virtue in fairy tales is feen
To play the goddess or the queen;
But what's a queen without the pow'r ? Or beauty, child, without a dow'r ? Yet this is all that virtue brags, And beft 'tis only worth in rags. Such whims my very heart derides: Indeed you make me burft my fides. Trust me, Mifs Bee-to fpeak the truth, I've copied men from earliest youth; The fame our taste, the fame our school, Paffion and appetite our rule; And call me bird, or call me finner, I'll ne'er forego my fport 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, fpringing 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 infenfible a beaft
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the refl! Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove
In ev'ry age the lumpish mafs to move :
But those were pedants, when compar'd with thefe,
Who know not only to inftruct but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way.
Myfterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; fo that as men grew Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too. Satire has always fhone among the rest, And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults ;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. In fatire too the wife took diff'rent ways,
To each deferving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with juft fharpnefs blame,
Whilft others laugh'd, and scorn'd them into shame. But, of these two, the laft fucceeded beft,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides, And cenfure those who cenfure all befides, In other things they juftly are preferr'd ; In this alone methinks the ancients err'd: Against the groffeft follies they declaim; Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game. Nothing is easier than fuch blots to hit, And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit : Befides, 'tis labour loft; for who would preach Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach ? Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with fharp eyes those nicer faults to find, Which lie obfcurely in the wifeft mind; That litttle fpeck which all the reft does spoil, To wash off that, would be a noble toil; Beyond the loofe-writ libels of this age, Or the forc'd fcenes of our declining flage; Above all cenfure too, each little wit Will be fo glad to fee the greater hit; Who judging better, though concern'd the molt Of fuch correction will have caufe to boast, In fuch a fatire all would feek a fhare, And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there. Old ftory-tellers too muft pine and die, To fee their antiquated wit laid by ;
Like her, who mifs'd her name in a lampoon, And griev❜d to find herself decay'd fo foon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing fparks appear it is od Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight :
Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write ?
Much less half wits; that's more against our rules:dr 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 flighted too, 24 trasy, ôn Who with dull knav'ry makes fo much ado
Till the fhrewd fool, by thriving too, too faft,
Like Efop's fox, becomes a prey at laft. Nor fhall the royal miftreffes be nam'd, Too ugly, or too eafy to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps fuch a pother, They are as common that way as the other :
Yet faunt'ring Charles, between his beaftly brace, Meets with diffembling ftill in either place, Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him, How one has jilted him, the other fold him: How that affects to laugh, how this to weep: But who can rail fo long as he can sleep? Was ever prince by two at once mifled, Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred ?
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