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Is't I or you
So monstrous-like the portrait's found,
then fix the satire ?
Shall not my fable censure vice,
A shepherd's Dog, unskill'd in sports,
Says Renard, 'tis a cruel case,
No doubt, among us rogues you find,
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?
Did I c'er make her poultry thinner?
Friend, quoth the Cur, I meant no harm;
What’s lamb to me? This faucy hint
Thou knave, thou fool, (the Dog reply'd)
So saying, on the Fox he flies :
WHY, Grubbinol, doft thou so wiftful seem ?
* 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.
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.
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.
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
Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell my glee ! No happiness is now reserv'd for me.
Aut Alconis habes laudes, aut jurgiu Codri, 27. Glee, joy; from the Dutch, gleoren, to recreate.