Yet we'll purfue an honest plan,
And fix the limits if we can.
But who fhall check our bold career?
Ambition knows of no barrier:
Not rapid Ganges, deep and wide,
Its bordering kingdoms can divide:
If fo, these kingdoms all fhall prove,
What 'tis t' oppose the son of Jove.
Thus, whilft our new-made courtier fed
The wild chimera in his head,
Some reft the gouty hero gains;
He finds a respite from his pains;
And growing better every day,
The useless stick is thrown away.
By this example warning take,
Ye courtiers! ye who dream awake:
Court-favours are precarious things;
The wind will change-and fo may kings.
N angry mood Jove once, they fay,
(That god comes often in my way)
Vow'd he'd chastise a certain bard,
For want of reverence and regard :
What! Jupiter have paffions then?
Read Homer, and your gods are men.
A thing call'd poet (what his name,
Or who he is, or whence he came,
It matters not) would have his joke,
Of gods irreverently spoke ;
And to enhance his fund of fin,
With Jove himself muft needs begin.
Hafte, Vulcan, to thy forge; and fetch
That bolt doom'd for the greatest wretch.
But ftay bring with thee great and small;
In one dread heap I'll lanch them all.
A dire example he shall prove
To all fuch bards as fneer at Jove.
Vulcan his orders ftrait obey'd
The whole creation shakes difmay'd;
Redoubl'd thunder roars aloud,
And from the thick collected cloud
Keen lightnings, darting thro' the fky,
In ferpentine meanders fly.
Earth dreads, left from her axis whirl'd,
She be again to chaos hurl'd.
And where's the poet all this while ?
Afleep and fleeping feems to fmile:
Ah! foon he'll feel the vengeful blast,
That fleep will surely be his laft.
No he awakes calm and ferene,
Unconscious of the difmal scene:
He to Jove's wrath his fafety owes :
The dart must err which paffion throws.
For all these bolts together tumbled,
In wild confufion, only rumbled;
Thro' vacant skies are vainly toft,
And all the expedition's loft.
Some few, tho' guiltless, bore the shock,
And here an oak, and there a rock
Torn up, o'erthrown in woeful plight,
Proclaim'd the horrors of the night.
Now had this wrath-enkindled god
Seiz'd a ftout broomstick, or a rod,
Inftead of all this mighty din -
A mercy on the poet's skin!
Nein, proud,
Nce on a time a foolish frog,
Vain, proud, and ftupid as a log,
(For 'tis an axiom of the school,
Who argues proud concludes a fool)
Tir'd with the marsh, her native home,
Imprudently abroad would roam,
And fix her habitation where
She'd breathe at least a purer air.
She was refolv'd to change, that's pofs;
Could fhe be worse than where fhe was?
Away the filly creature leaps :
A rat, who faw her lab'ring steps,
Cry'd out, where in this hurry pray?
You certainly will go aftray.
Ne'er fear, I quit that filthy bog,
Where I fo long have croak'd incog:
People of talents fure should thrive,
And not be buried thus alive.
But pray, for I'm extremely dry,
Know you of any water nigh?
None, faid the rat, you'll reach to day,
As you fo flowly make your way.
Believe a friend, and take my word,
This jaunt of yours is quite abfurd.
Go to your froggery again;
In your own element remain.
No: on the journey she was bent;
Her thirst increasing as she went,
For want of drink fhe scarce can hop,
And yet defpairing of a drop,
Too late fhe moans her folly paft:
She faints, fhe finks, fhe breathes her laft.
Frogs, in your marshes be content;
Dry land for you was never meant.
Some breathe in dry, fome in moist air,
But all fhould live within their sphere.
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