Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.

THE LION AND THE CUB.

How fond are men of rule and place,
Who court it from the mean and base!
These cannot bear an equal nigh,
But from superior merit fly.

They love the cellar's vulgar joke,

And lose their hours in ale and smoke.
There o'er some petty club preside;

So poor, so paltry, is their pride!

Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit,

In hopes to be supreme in wit.

If these can read, to these I write,

To set their worth in truest light.
A Lion cub, of sordid mind,

Avoided all the lion kind;

Fond of applause, he sought the feasts.
Of vulgar and ignoble beasts;

With asses all his time he spent,
Their club's perpetual president.

He caught their manners, looks, and airs;
An ass in everything but ears!

If e'er his Highness meant a joke,
They grinned applause before he spoke;
But at each word what shouts of praise!
"Good gods! how natural he brays!"
Elate with flattery and conceit,
He seeks his royal sire's retreat;
Forward, and fond to show his parts,
His Highness brays; the Lion starts.
"Puppy! that cursed vociferation
Betrays thy life and conversation:
Coxcombs, an ever noisy race,
Are trumpets of their own disgrace."

"Why so severe ? (the Cub replies) Our senate always held me wise."

"How weak is pride! (returns the sire) All fools are vain when fools admire! But know, what stupid asses prize, Lions and noble beasts despise."

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

"Why are those tears? why droops your head? Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worse disgrace betide?

Hath no one since his death applied?"
"Alas! you know the cause too well;
The salt is spilt, to me it fell;
Then to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across :
On Friday, too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounced from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell:
God send my Cornish friends be well!"
"Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,

Nor feel affliction in thy fears;
Let not thy stomach be suspended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And when the butler clears the table,
For thy dessert, I'll read my Fable."

Betwixt her swagging pannier's load
A Farmer's Wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summed up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream:
"That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak)

Bodes me no good." No more she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread
Fell prone; o'erturned the pannier lay,
And her mashed eggs bestrewed the way.
She, sprawling in the yellow road,

Railed, swore, and cursed: "Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!

I knew misfortune in the note."

"Dame, (quoth the Raven) spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own; For had you laid this brittle ware On Dun, the old sure-footed mare, Though all the Ravens of the Hundred,

With croaking had your tongue out-thundered, Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,

And you, good Woman, saved your eggs."

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye;
Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own stronger errors blind.

A Turkey, tired of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood;
Behind her ran an infant train,

Collecting here and there a grain.

"Draw near, my Birds! (the mother cries) This hill delicious fare supplies;

Behold the busy negro race,

See millions blacken all the place!
Fear not; like me with freedom eat;
An Ant is most delightful meat.
How blessed, how envied, were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife!
But man, cursed man, on Turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days.
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savory chine;
From the low peasant to the lord,
The Turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for gluttony are cursed,
Of the seven deadly sins the worst."

An Ant, who climbed beyond his reach, Thus answered from the neighb'ring beech:"Ere you remark another's sin,

Bid thine own conscience look within;

Control thy more voracious bill,

Nor for a breakfast nations kill."

THE GARDENER AND THE HOG.

A gardener of peculiar taste,
On a young Hog his favor placed,
Who fed not with the common herd;
His tray was to the hall preferred:
He wallowed underneath the board,
Or in his master's chamber snored,
Who fondly stroked him every day,

And taught him all the puppy's play.
Where'er he went, the grunting friend
Ne'er failed his pleasure to attend.

As on a time the loving pair
Walked forth to tend the garden's care,
The Master thus addressed the Swine:-
"My house, my garden, all is thine.
On turnips feast whene'er you please,
And riot in my beans and pease,
If the potato's taste delights,
Or the red carrot's sweet invites,
Indulge thy morn and evening hours,
But let due care regard my flowers:
My tulips are my garden's pride:
What vast expense those beds supplied!"

The Hog by chance one morning roamed,
Where with new ale the vessels foamed;
He munches now the steaming grains,
Now with full swill the liquor drains.
Intoxicating fumes arise;

He reels, he rolls his winking eyes;

Then staggering through the garden scours,
And treads down painted ranks of flowers:
With delving snout he turns the soil,
And cools his palate with the spoil.

The Master came, the ruin spied;
"Villain! suspend thy rage, (he cried)
Hast thou, thou most ungrateful sot,
My charge, my only charge, forgot?
What, all my flowers!" no more he said,
But gazed, and sighed, and hung his head.

The Hog with fluttering speech returns:-
"Explain, Sir, why your anger burns.
See there, untouched, your tulips strown;
For I devoured the roots alone."

At this the Gardener's passion grows;
From oaths and threats he falls to blows:
The stubborn brute the blow sustains,
Assaults his leg, and tears the veins

Ah! foolish Swain! too late you find
That sties were for such friends designed!
Homeward he limps with painful pace,
Reflecting thus on past disgrace;
"Who cherishes a brutal mate,
Shall mourn the folly soon or late."

LETTERS OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

[LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU: An English author; born at Thoresby, Nottinghamshire, England, about 1690; died August 21, 1762. She was married in 1712 to the Hon. Edward Wortley Montagu, whom she accompanied on his mission to the Porte. While in Constantinople, she wrote to her sister, the Countess of Mar, Pope, and other friends, her famous "Letters," by which she is chiefly known. She also published "Town Eclogues. Her writings are witty and vivacious and attracted much attention among English literati.]

TO THE COUNTESS OF BUTE.

July 10, 1748.

DEAR CHILD,-I received yours of May the 12th but yesterday, July the 9th. I am surprised you complain of my silence. I have never failed answering yours the post after I received them; but I fear, being directed to Twickenham (having no other direction from you), your servants there may have neglected them.

I have been these six weeks, and still am, at my dairy house, which joins to my garden. I believe I have already told you it is a long mile from the Castle, which is situate in the midst of a very large village, once a considerable town, part of the walls still remaining, and has not vacant ground enough about it to make a garden, which is my greatest amusement, it being now troublesome to walk, or even go in the chaise till the evening. I have fitted up in this farmhouse a room for myself—that is to say, strewed the floor with rushes, covered the chimney with moss and branches, and adorned the room with basins of earthenware (which is made here to great perfection) filled with flowers, and put in some straw chairs, and a couch bed, which is my whole furniture. This spot of ground is so beautiful, I am afraid you will scarce credit the description, which, however, I can assure you, shall be very literal, without any embellishment from imagination. It is on a bank, forming a kind of peninsula, raised from the river Oglio fifty feet, to which you may descend by easy stairs cut in the turf, and either take the air on the river, which is as large as the Thames at Richmond, or by walking in an avenue two hundred yards on the side of it, you find a wood of a hundred acres, which was already cut into walks and ridings when I took it. I have only added fifteen bowers in different views, with seats of turf. They were easily made, here being a large