« AnteriorContinuar »
sT was thus that Æsop's ftag—a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless Once on the margin of a fountain food, And cavil'd at his image in the flood: “The deuce confound,' he cries, these drumstick shanks, • They never have my gratitude nor thanks; • They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!• But, for a head-yes, yes, I have a head. • How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now.' Whilst thus he spoke, astonish’d! to his view, Near and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew; • Hoicks! hark forward !' came thund'ring from behind, He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind : He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. At length his filly head, so priz'd before, Is taught his former folly to deplore; Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, And at one bound he faves himself-like me.
(Taking a jump through the stage.door.)
TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.
What! five long ads-and all to make us wiser!
My life on't, this had kept her play from finking-
(To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.)
(Mimicking.) Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You'll find his lionthip a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate, Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state; Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume, He turns old wonian, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your fight,
THE CLOWN'S REPLY. JOHN TROTT was desir'd by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears? • An't please you,' quoth John, 'l'm not given to letters, • Nor dare I pretend to know more than
betters; Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, • As I hope to be sav’d, without thinking on asses.'
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*
Who long was a bookseller's hack-
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
* Who translated Voltaire's Henriade.