On hearing a poor man lament

His worldly thoughts in discontent,

Esop this tale began to write,

For consolation and delight.

The ship by furious tempests toss’d,

The Mariners gave all for lost;

But midst their tears and dread, the scene

Is changed at once, and all serene.

The wind is fair, the vessel speeds,

The Sailors’ boist’rous joy exceeds:

The Pilot then, by peril wise,

Was prompted to philosophise.

“’Tis right to put a due restraint

On joy, and to retard complaint,

Because alternate hope and fright

Make up our lives of black and white.”

He, that malicious men relieves,

His folly in a season grieves.

A Man, against himself humane,

Took up an Adder, that had lain

And stiffen’d in the frosty air,

And in his bosom placed with care,

Where she with speed recov’ring breath,

Her benefactor stung to death.

Another Adder near the place,

On asking why she was so base,

Was told, “’Tis others to dissuade

From giving wickedness their aid.”

A Fox was throwing up the soil,

And while with his assiduous toil

He burrow’d deep into the ground,

A Dragon in his den he found,

A-watching hidden treasure there,

Whom seeing, Renard speaks him fair:

“First, for your pardon I apply

For breaking on your privacy;

Then, as you very plainly see

That gold is of no use to me,

Your gentle leave let me obtain

To ask you, what can be the gain

Of all this care, and what the fruit,

That you should not with sleep recruit

Your spirits, but your life consume

Thus in an everlasting gloom?”

“’Tis not my profit here to stay,”

He cries; “but I must Jove obey.”

“What! will you therefore nothing take

Yourself, nor others welcome make?”

“Ev’n so the fates decree:” —“Then, sir,

Have patience, whilst I do aver

That he who like affections knows

Is born with all the gods his foes.

Since to that place you needs must speed,

Where all your ancestors precede,

Why in the blindness of your heart

Do you torment your noble part?”

All this to thee do I indite,

Thou grudging churl, thy heir’s delight,

Who robb’st the gods of incense due,

Thyself of food and raiment too;

Who hear’st the harp with sullen mien,

To whom the piper gives the spleen;

Who’rt full of heavy groans and sighs

When in their price provisions rise;

Who with thy frauds heaven’s patience tire

To make thy heap a little higher,

And, lest death thank thee, in thy will

Hast tax’d the undertaker’s bill.

What certain envious hearts intend

I very clearly comprehend,

Let them dissemble e’er so much.—

When they perceive the master’s touch,

And find ’tis likely to endure,

They’ll say ’tis Esop to be sure—

But what appears of mean design,

At any rate they’ll vouch for mine.

These in a word I would refute:

Whether of great or no repute,

What sprung from Esop’s fertile thought

This hand has to perfection brought;

But waiving things to our distaste,

Let’s to the destined period haste.

A man, whose learned worth is known,

Has always riches of his own.

Simonides, who was the head

Of lyric bards, yet wrote for bread,

His circuit took through every town

In Asia of the first renown,

The praise of heroes to rehearse,

Who gave him money for his verse.

When by this trade much wealth was earn’d,

Homewards by shipping he return’d

(A Cean born, as some suppose):

On board he went, a tempest rose,

Which shook th’ old ship to that degree,

She founder’d soon as out at sea.

Some purses, some their jewels tie

About them for a sure supply;

But one more curious, ask’d the seer,

“Poet, have you got nothing here?”

“My all,” says he, “is what I am.”—

On this some few for safety swam

(For most o’erburden’d by their goods,

Were smother’d in the whelming floods).

The spoilers came, the wealth demand,

And leave them naked on the strand.

It happen’d for the shipwreck’d crew

An ancient city was in view,

By name Clazomena, in which

There lived a scholar learn’d and rich,

Who often read, his cares to ease,

The verses of Simonides,

And was a vast admirer grown

Of this great poet, though unknown.

Him by his converse when he traced,

He with much heartiness embraced,

And soon equipp’d the bard anew,

With servants, clothes, and money too,

The rest benevolence implored,

With case depicted on a board:

Which when Simonides espied,

“I plainly told you all,” he cried,

“That all my wealth was in myself;

As for your chattels and your pelf,

On which ye did so much depend,

They’re come to nothing in the end.”

The Mountain labor’d, groaning loud,

On which a num’rous gaping crowd

Of noodles came to see the sight,

When, lo! a mouse was brought to light!

This tale’s for men of swagg’ring cast,

Whose threats, voluminous and vast,

With all their verse and all their prose,

Can make but little on’t, God knows.

An Ant and Fly had sharp dispute

Which creature was of most repute;

When thus began the flaunting Fly:

“Are you so laudible as I?

I, ere the sacrifice is carved,

Precede the gods; first come, first served—

Before the altar take my place,

And in all temples show my face,

Whene’er I please I set me down

Upon the head that wears a crown.

I with impunity can taste

The kiss of matrons fair and chaste.

And pleasure without labor claim—

Say, trollop, canst thou do the same?”

“The feasts of gods are glorious fare.

No doubt, to those who’re welcome there;

But not for such detested things.—

You talk of matron’s lips and kings;

I, who with wakeful care and pains

Against the winter hoard my grains,

Thee feeding upon ordure view.—

The altars you frequent, ’tis true;

But still are driv’n away from thence,

And elsewhere, as of much offence.

A life of toil you will not lead,

And so have nothing when you need.

Besides all this, you talk with pride

Of things that modesty should hide.

You plague me here, while days increase,

But when the winter comes you cease.

Me, when the cold thy life bereaves,

A plenteous magazine receives.

I think I need no more advance

To cure you of your arrogance.”

The tenor of this tale infers

Two very diff’rent characters;

Of men self-praised and falsely vain,

And men of real worth in grain.

Th’ attention letters can engage,

Ev’n from a base degen’rate age,

I’ve shown before; and now shall show

Their lustre in another view,

And tell a memorable tale,

How much they can with heav’n prevail. 

Simonides, the very same

We lately had a call to name,

Agreed for such a sum to blaze

A certain famous champion’s praise.

He therefore a retirement sought,

But found the theme on which he wrote

So scanty, he was forced to use

Th’ accustom’d license of the muse,

And introduced and praise bestow’d

On Leda’s sons to raise his ode;

With these the rather making free,

As heroes in the same degree.

He warranted his work, and yet

Could but one third of payment get.

Upon demanding all the due,

“Let them,” says he, “pay t’other two,

Who take two places in the song;

But lest you think I do you wrong

And part in dudgeon—I invite

Your company to sup this night,

For then my friends and kin I see,

’Mongst which I choose to reckon thee.”

Choused and chagrined, yet shunning blame,

He promised, set the hour, and came;

As fearful lest a favour spurn’d

Should to an open breach be turn’d.

The splendid banquet shone with plate,

And preparations full of state

Made the glad house with clamors roar—

When on a sudden at the door

Two youths, with sweat and dust besmear’d,

Above the human form appear’d,

And charged forthwith a little scout

To bid Simonides come out,

That ’twas his int’rest not to stay.—

The slave, in trouble and dismay,

Roused from his seat the feasting bard,

Who scarce had stirr’d a single yard

Before the room at once fell in,

And crush’d the champion and his kin.

No youths before the door are found.—

The thing soon spread the country round;

And when each circumstance was weigh’d,

They knew the gods that visit made,

And saved the poet’s life in lieu

Of those two-thirds which yet were due.

I yet have stock in hand to spare,

And could write on—but will forbear—

First, lest I tire a friend, whose state

And avocations are so great:

And then, if other pens should try

This moral scheme as well as I,

They may have something to pursue:—

Yet if the spacious field we view,

More men are wanting for the plan,

Rather than matter for the man.

Now for that prize I make my plea

You promised to my brevity.

Keep your kind word; for life, my friend,

Is daily nearer to its end;

And I shall share your love the less

The longer you your hand repress:

The sooner you the boon insure,

The more the tenure must endure;

And if I quick possession take,

The greater profit must I make,

While yet declining age subsists,

A room for friendly aid exists.

Anon with tasteless years grown weak,

In vain benevolence will seek

To do me good—when Death at hand

Shall come and urge his last demand.

’Tis folly, you’ll be apt to say,

A thousand times to beg and pray

Of one with so much worth and sense,

Whose gen’rous bounty is propense.

If e’er a miscreant succeeds,

By fair confession of his deeds,

An innocent offender’s case

Is far more worthy of your grace.

You for example sake begin,

Then others to the lure you’ll win,

And in rotation more and more

Will soon communicate their store.

Consider in your mind how far

At stake your word and honour are;

And let your closing the debate

By what I may congratulate.

I have been guilty of excess

Beyond my thought in this address

But ’tis not easy to refrain

A spirit work’d up to disdain

By wretches insolent and vile,

With a clear conscience all the while.

You’ll ask me, sir, at whom I hint—

In time they may appear in print.

But give me leave to cite a phrase

I met with in my boyish days.

“’Tis dangerous for the mean and low

Too plain their grievances to show.”

This is advice I shall retain

While life and sanity remain.

When I resolved my hand to stay

For this, that others might have play,

On reconsidering of my part

I soon recanted in my heart:

For if a rival should arise,

How can he possibly devise

The things that I have let alone,

Since each man’s fancy is his own,

And likewise colouring of the piece?—

It was not therefore mere caprice,

But strong reflection made me write:

Wherefore since you in tales delight,

Which I, in justice, after all,

Not Esop’s, but Esopian call;

Since he invented but a few;

I more, and some entirely new,

Keeping indeed the ancient style,

With fresh materials all the while.

As at your leisure you peruse

The fourth collection of my muse,

That you may not be at a stand,

A fifth shall shortly come to hand;

’Gainst which, if as against the rest,

Malignant cavillers protest,

Let them carp on, and make it plain

They carp at what they can’t attain.

My fame’s secure, since I can show

How men of eminence like you,

My little book transcribe and quote,

As like to live of classic note.

It is th’ ambition of my pen

To win th’ applause of learned men.

If Esop’s name at any time

I bring into this measured rhyme,

To whom I’ve paid whate’er I owe,

Let all men by these presents know,

I with th’ old fabulist make free,

To strengthen my authority.

As certain sculptors of the age,

The more attention to engage,

And raise their price, the curious please,

By forging of Praxiteles;

And in like manner they purloin

A Myro to their silver coin.

’Tis thus our fables we can smoke,

As pictures for their age bespoke:

For biting envy, in disgust

To new improvements, favors rust;

But now a tale comes in of course,

Which these assertions will enforce.

Demetrius, who was justly call’d

The tyrant, got himself install’d,

And held o’er Athens impious sway.

The crowd, as ever is the way,

Came, eager rushing far and wide,

And, “Fortunate event!” they cried.

The nobles came, the throne address’d:

The hand by which they were oppress’d

They meekly kiss’d, with inward stings

Of anguish for the face of things.

The idlers also, with the tribe

Of those who to themselves prescribe

Their ease and pleasure, in the end

Came sneaking, lest they should offend.

Amongst this troop Menander hies,

So famous for his comedies.

(Him, though he was not known by sight,

The tyrant read with great delight,

Struck with the genius of the bard.)

In flowing robes bedaub’d with nard,

And saunt’ring tread he came along,

Whom, at the bottom of the throng,

When Phalereus beheld, he said:

“How dares that fribble show his head

In this our presence?” he was told—

“It is Menander you behold.”

Then, changed at once from fierce to bland,

He call’d, and took him by the hand.

Two men equipp’d were on their way;

One fearful; one without dismay,

An able fencer. As they went,

A robber came with black intent;

Demanding, upon pain of death,

Their gold and silver in a breath.

At which the man of spirit drew,

And instantly disarm’d and slew

The Thief, his honor to maintain.

Soon as the rogue was fairly slain,

The tim’rous chap began to puff,

And drew his sword, and stripp’d in buff—

“Leave me alone with him! stand back!

I’ll teach him whom he should attack.”

Then he who fought, “I wish, my friend,

But now you’d had such words to lend;

I might have been confirm’d the more,

Supposing truth to all you swore;

Then put your weapon in the sheath,

And keep your tongue within your teeth,

Though you may play an actor’s part

On them who do not know your heart.

I, who have seen this very day

How lustily you ran away,

Experience when one comes to blows

How far your resolution goes.”

This narrative to those I tell

Who stand their ground when all is well;

But in the hour of pressing need

Abash’d, most shamefully recede.

As on his head she chanced to sit,

A Man’s bald pate a Gadfly bit;

He, prompt to crush the little foe,

Dealt on himself a grievous blow:

At which the Fly, deriding said,

“You that would strike an insect dead

For one slight sting, in wrath so strict,

What punishment will you inflict

Upon yourself, who was so blunt

To do yourself this gross affront?”—

“O,” says the party, “as for me,

I with myself can soon agree.

The spirit of th’ intention’s all;

But thou, detested cannibal!

Blood-sucker! to have thee secured

More would I gladly have endured.”

What by this moral tale is meant

Is—those who wrong not with intent

Are venial; but to those that do

Severity, I think, is due.

A certain Man, when he had made

A sacrifice, for special aid

To Hercules, and kill’d a swine,

Did for his Ass’s share assign

All the remainder of the corn;

But he, rejecting it with scorn,

Thus said: “I gladly would partake—

But apprehend that life’s at stake;

For he you fatted up and fed

With store of this, is stuck and dead.”

Struck with the import of this tale,

I have succeeded to prevail

Upon my passions, and abstain,

From peril of immod’rate gain.

But, you will say, those that have come

Unjustly by a handsome sum,

Upon the pillage still subsist—

Why, if we reckon up the list,

You’ll find by far the major part

Have been conducted in the cart:

Temerity for some may do,

But many more their rashness rue.

In ev’ry age, in each profession,

Men err the most by prepossession;

But when the thing is clearly shown,

Is fairly urged, and fully known,

We soon applaud what we deride,

And penitence succeeds to pride.

A certain noble, on a day,

Having a mind to show away,

Invited by reward the mimes

And play’rs and tumblers of the times,

And built a large commodious stage

For the choice spirits of the age:

But, above all, amongst the rest

There came a genius who profess’d

To have a curious trick in store

That never was perform’d before.

Through all the town this soon got air,

And the whole house was like a fair;

But soon his entry as he made,

Without a prompter or parade,

’Twas all expectance and suspense,

And silence gagg’d the audience.

He, stooping down and looking big,

So wondrous well took off a pig,

All swore ’twas serious, and no joke,

For that, or underneath his cloak

He had concealed some grunting elf,

Or was a real hog himself.

A search was made—no pig was found—

With thund’ring claps the seats resound,

And pit, and box, and gall’ries roar

With— “O rare! bravo!” and “encore.”

Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,

Who yet knew something of the town,

Beheld the mimic of his whim,

And on the morrow challenged him

Declaring to each beau and belle

That he this grunter would excel.

The morrow came—the crowd was greater—

But prejudice and rank ill-nature

Usurp’d the minds of men and wenches,

Who came to hiss and break the benches.

The mimic took his usual station,

And squeak’d with general approbation;

Again “Encore! encore!” they cry—

“’Tis quite the thing, ’tis very high.”

Old Grouse conceal’d, amidst this racket,

A real pig beneath his jacket—

Then forth he came, and with his nail

He pinch’d the urchin by the tail.

The tortured pig, from out his throat,

Produced the genuine nat’ral note.

All bellow’d out ’twas very sad!

Sure never stuff was half so bad.

“That like a pig!” each cried in scoff;

“Pshaw! nonsense! blockhead! off! off! off!”

The mimic was extoll’d, and Grouse

Was hiss’d, and catcall’d from the house.

“Soft ye, a word before I go,”

Quoth honest Hodge; and stooping low,

Produced the pig, and thus aloud

Bespoke the stupid partial crowd:

“Behold, and learn from this poor cratur,

How much you critics know of natur!”

As yet my muse is not to seek,

But can from fresh materials speak;

And our poetic fountain springs

With rich variety of things.

But you’re for sallies short and sweet;

Long tales their purposes defeat.

Wherefore, thou worthiest, best of men

Particulo, for whom my pen

Immortal honour will insure,

Long as a rev’rence shall endure

For Roman learning—if this strain

Cannot your approbation gain,

Yet, yet my brevity admire,

Which may the more to praise aspire,

The more our poets now-a-days

Are tedious in their lifeless lays.

As on his way a Bald-pate went,

He found a comb by accident;

Another, with a head as bare,

Pursued, and hollow’d for a share.

The first produced the prize, and cried,

“Good Providence was on our side;

But by the strange caprice of Fate,

We’re to no purpose fortunate;

And, as the proverb says, have found

A hobnail, for a hundred pound.”

They by this tale may be relieved

Whose sanguine hopes have been deceived.

A little, friv’lous, abject mind,

Pleased with the rabble, puff’d with wind,

When once, as fast as pride presumes,

Itself with vanity it plumes,

Is by fond lightness brought with ease

To any ridicule you please.

One Prince, a piper to the play,

Was rather noted in his way,

As call’d upon to show his art,

Whene’er Bathyllus did his part.

He being at a certain fair,

(I do not well remember where,)

While they pull’d down the booth in haste,

Not taking heed, his leg displaced,

He from the scaffold fell so hard—

(Would he his pipes had rather marr’d!

Though they, poor fellow! were to him

As dear almost as life and limb).

Borne by the kind officious crowd,

Home he’s conducted, groaning loud.

Some months elapsed before he found

Himself recover’d of his wound:

Meantime, according to their way,

The droll frequenters of the play

Had a great miss of him, whose touch

The dancers’ spirits raised so much.

A certain man of high renown

Was just preparing for the town

Some games the mob to entertain,

When Prince began to walk again;

Whom, what with bribes and pray’rs, his grace

Prevail’d upon to show his face

In this performance, by all means—

And while he waits behind the scenes,

A rumour through the house is spread,

By certain, that “the piper’s dead.”

Others cried out, “The man is here,

And will immediately appear.”

The curtain draws, the lightnings flash,

The gods speak out their usual trash.

An ode, not to the Piper known,

Was to the chorus leader shown,

Which he was order’d to repeat,

And which was closed with this conceit—

“Receive with joy, O loyal Rome,

Thy Prince just rescued from his tomb.”

They all at once stand up and clap,

At which my most facetious chap

Kisses his hand, and scrapes and bows

To his good patrons in the house.

First the equestrian order smoke

The fool’s mistake, and high in joke,

Command the song to be encored;

Which ended, flat upon the board

The Piper falls, the knights acclaim;

The people think that Prince’s aim

Is for a crown of bays at least.

Now all the seats perceived the jest,

And with his bandage white as snow,

White frock, white pumps, a perfect beauty

Proud of the feats he had achieved,

And these high honours he received,

With one unanimous huzza, Poor

Prince was kick’d out of the play.

Bald, naked, of a human shape,

With fleet wings ready to escape,

Upon a razor’s edge his toes,

And lock that on his forehead grows—

Him hold, when seized, for goodness’ sake,

For Jove himself cannot retake

The fugitive when once he’s gone.

The picture that we here have drawn

Is Opportunity so brief.—

The ancients, in a bas-relief,

Thus made an effigy of Time,

That every one might use their prime;

Nor e’er impede, by dull delay,

Th’ effectual business of to-day.

A Bull was struggling to secure

His passage at a narrow door,

And scarce could reach the rack of hay,

His horns so much were in his way.

A Calf officious, fain would show

How he might twist himself and go.

“Hold thou thy prate; all this,” says he,

“Ere thou wert calved was known to me.”

He, that a wiser man by half

Would teach, may think himself this Calf.

A Dog, that time and often tried,

His master always satisfied;

And whensoever he assail’d,

Against the forest-beasts prevail’d

Both by activity and strength,

Through years began to flag at length.

One day, when hounded at a boar,

His ear he seized, as heretofore;

But with his teeth, decay’d and old,

Could not succeed to keep his hold.

At which the huntsman, much concern’d,

The vet’ran huff’d, who thus return’d:

“My resolution and my aim,

Though not my strength, are still the same;

For what I am if I am chid,

Praise what I was, and what I did.”

Philetus, you the drift perceive

Of this, with which I take my leave.