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If 'tis with reason they complain,
This infant shall restore my reign.
I'll search where every virtue dwells,
From courts inclusive down to cells :
What preachers talk, or sages write ;
These will I gather and unite,
And represent them to mankind
Collected in that infant's mind.

This said, she plucks in Heaven's high bowers
A sprig of amaranthine flowers.
In nectar thrice infuses bays,
Three times refined in Titan's rays ;
Then calls the Graces to her aid,
And sprinkles thrice the newborn maid :
From whence the tender skin assumes
A sweetness above all perfumes :
From whence a cleanliness remains,
Incapable of outward stains :
From whence that decency of mind,
So lovely in the female kind,
Where not one careless thought intrudes
Less modest than the speech of prudes;
Where never blush was call'd in aid,
That spurious virtue in a maid,
A virtue but at second-hand ;
They blush because they understand.

The Graces next would act their part,
And show'd but little of their art;
Their work was half already done,
The child with native beauty shone ;
The outward form no help required :
Each, breathing on her thrice, inspired
That gentle, soft, engaging air,
Which in old times adorn'd the fair :
And said, “Vanessa be the name
By which thou shalt be known to fame :
Vanessa, by the gods enrolld :
Her name on earth shall not be told.'


When beasts could speak, (the learned say
They still can do so every day,)
It seems, they had religion then,
As much as now we find in men,
It happen'd, when a plague broke out,
(Which therefore made them more devout,)
The king of brutes (to make it plain,
Of quadrupeds I only mean)
By proclamation gave command,
That every subject in the land
Should to the priest confess their sins;
And thus the pious Wolf begins :-
Good father, I must own with shame,
That often I have been to blame :
I must confess, on Friday last,
Wretch that I was ! I broke my fast:
But I defy the basest tongue
To prove I did my neighbour wrong ;
Or ever went to seek my food,
By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The Ass approaching next, confess’d,
That in his heart he loved a jest :
A wag he was, he needs must own,
And could not let a dunce alone :
Sometimes his friend he would not spare,
And might perhaps be too severe :
But yet the worst that could be said,
He was a wit both born and bred;
And, if it be a sin and shame,
Nature alone must bear the blame :
One fault he has, is sorry for't,
His ears are half a foot too short;
Which could he to the standard bring,
He'd show his face before the king :

Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud : In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice : In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent : Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbour ne'er was found ; His vigilance might some displease ; 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain’d, Who said, his gravity was feign'd : Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels : He saw, and he was grieved to see 't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet : He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear; Yet such a lewd licentious age Might well excuse a stoic's rage.

The Goat advanced with decent pace, And first excused his youthful face ; Forgiveness begg’d that he appear'd ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. 'Tis true, he was not much inclined To fondness for the female kind : Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect ; Not by his frigid constitution; But through a pious resolution : For he had made a holy vow "Of Chastity, as monks do now : Which he resolved to keep for ever hence And strictly too, as doth his reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own; but can you guess ? -Why, virtue's carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) He never squeezed a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool ; His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term ; While others of the learned robe, Would break the patience of a Job. No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch ; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most.

The cringing knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case : Why should he longer mince the matter? He failed, because he could not flatter; He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote : His crime he quickly understood ; Too zealous for the nation's good : He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn : He passed his hours among his books ; You find it in his meagre looks : He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get, and spare his eyes ; But owns he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone to merit ;

Would rise by merit to promotion ;
Alas! a mere chimeric notion.

The Doctor, if you will believe him,
Confess'd a sin ; (and God forgive him !)
Calld up at midnight, ran to save
A blind old beggar from the grave :
But see how Satan spreads his snares;
He quite forgot to say his prayers.
He cannot help it, for his heart,
Sometimes to act the parson's part :
Quotes from the Bible many a sentence,
That moves his patients to repentance ;
And, when his medicines do no good,
Supports their minds with heavenly food :
At which, however well intended,
He hears the clergy are offended ;
And grown so bold behind his back,
To call him hypocrite and quack.
In his own church he keeps a seat ;
Says grace before and after meat;
And calls, without affecting airs,
His household twice a-day to prayers.
He shuns apothecaries' shops,
And hates to cram the sick with slops :
He scorns to make his art a trade;
Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid.
Old nurse-keepers would never hire,
To recommend him to the squire ;
Which others, whom he will not name,
Have often practised to their shame.

The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view, Yet he was seconded by few ;

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