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35

Is't I or you

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So monstrous-like the portrait's found,
All know it, and the laugh goes round.
Like him I draw from gen’ral nature :

then fix the satire ?
So, fir, I beg you, spare your pains
In making comments on my

strains.
All private flander I detest,
I judge not of my neighbour's breaft:
Party and prejudice I hate,
And write no libels on the state.

Shall not my fable censure vice,
Because a knave is over-nice?
And, left the guilty hear and dread,
Shall not the Decalogue be read?
If I lash vice in gen'ral fi&tion,
Is 't I apply, or self-conviction?
Brutes are my theme. Am I to blame,
If men in morals the fame?
I no man call or ape or ass;
'Tis his own conscience holds the glass.
Thus void of all offence I write:
Who claims the fable, knows his right.

A shepherd's Dog, unskill'd in sports,
Pick'd up acquaintance of all sorts ;
Among the rest a Fox he knew;
By frequent chat their friendship grew.

Says Renard, 'tis a cruel case,
That man should stigmatize our race.

so

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60

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No doubt, among us rogues you find,
As among dogs and human kind;
And yet (unknown to me and you)

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There may be honest men and true.
Thus Sander tries whate'er it can
To put us on the foot with man.
Let my own actions recommend;
No prejudice can blind a friend :
You know me free from all disguise ;
My honour as my life I prize.

By talk like this, from all mistrust The Dog was cur'd, and thought him juft. As on a time the Fox held forth

75 On conscience, honefty, and worth, Sudden he stopp'd; he cock'd his ear; Low dropt his brushy tail with fear.

Bless us ! the hunters are abroad : What's all that clatter on the road ! 80

Hold, says the Dog, we're free from harm; 'Twas nothing but a false alarm. At yonder town 'tis market-day; Some farmer's wife is on the

way : 'Tis fo, (I know her pyebald mare) 85 Dame Dobbins with her poultry-ware.

Renard grew huff. Says he, This sneer From you I little thought to hear; Your meaning in your looks I see. Pray, what's Dame Dobbins, friend, to me?

you."

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Did I c'er make her poultry thinner?
Prove that I owe the dame a dinner.

Friend, quoth the Cur, I meant no harm;
Then why so captious ? why so warm?
My words, in common acceptation, 95
Could never give this provocation.
No lamb (for ought I ever knew)
May be more innocent than
At this, gall’d Renard winc'd, and swore
Such language ne'er was giv'n before.

What’s lamb to me? This faucy hint
Shows me, base knave, which way you squint.
If t other night your master loft
Three lambs, am I to pay the cost ?
Your vile reflections would imply 105
That I'm the thief. You dog, you lye.

Thou knave, thou fool, (the Dog reply'd)
The name is just, take either side;
Thy guilt these applications speak :
Sirrah, 'tis conscience makes you squeak. 110

So saying, on the Fox he flies :
The self-convicted felon dies.

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WHY, Grubbinol, doft thou so wiftful seem ?
There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;
From the tall elm a show'r of leaves is born, 5
And their loft beauty riven beeches mourn.
Yet ev’n this season pleasance blithe affords,
Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoardo.
Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheery bowl,
Let cyder new wash forrow from thy foul.

10

* Dirge, or Dyrge, a mournful ditty, or song of lamentation, over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Dirige in the Popish hymn, Dirige gresus meos, as some pretend. But from the Teutonick Dyrke, laudare, to praise and extol. Whence it is possible their Dyrke, and our Dirge, was a laudatory long to commemorate and applaud the dead.-Cowell's Interpreter.

GRUBBINOL.

Ah, Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone, From these fad plains all merriment is flown; Should I reveal my grief ’twould spoil thy chear, And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.

BUMKINET.

Hang forrow! Let's to yonder hutt repair, 15 And with trim sonnets cast away our care. Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play ; Thou sing'ft most sweet, O'er bills and far away. Of Patient Griffel I devise to sing, And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring. 20 Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come ; From hence we view our focks securely roam.

GRUBBINOL.

Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing, But with my woe shall distant valleys ring. The tale shall make our kidlings drcop their head, For woe is me!-our Blouzelind is dead. 26

BUMKINET.

Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell my glee ! No happiness is now reserv'd for me.

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15. Incipe, Mopje, prior fi quos aut Phyllidis ignes

Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgiu Codri, 27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch, gleoren, to recreate.

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