Oh! fie, the honest Bee replied,
I fear you make base man your guide;
Of ev'ry creature fure the worst,
Though in creation's scale the first !
Ungrateful man! 'tis strange he thrives,
Who burns the Bees to rob their hives!
I hate his vile administration,
And so do all the emmet nation.
What fatal foes to birds are men,
Quite to the Eagle from the Wren!
O! do not men's example take,
Who mischief do for mischief's fake;
But spare the Ant her worth demands
Esteem and friendship at your hands,
A mind with ev'ry virtue blest,
Must raise compassion in your breaft.
Virtue! rejoin'd the sneering bird,
Where did you learn that Gothic word ?
Since I was hatch'd, I never heard
That virtue was at all rever'd.
But say it was the ancients claim,
Yet moderns disavow the name;
Unless, my dear, you read romances,
I cannot reconcile your fancies.-
Virtue in fairy tales is feen
To play the goddess or the queen;

1

But

But what's a queen without the pow'r ?
Or beauty, child, without a dow'r ?

Yet this is all that virtue brags,
And best 'tis only worth in rags.
Such whims my very heart derides:
Indeed you make me burst my fides.
Trust me, Miss Bee-to speak the truth,
I've copied men from earliest youth;
The fame our taste, the fame our school,
Passion and appetite our rule;
And call me bird, or call me finner,
I'll ne'er forego my sport or dinner!
A prowling cat the miscreant spies,
And wide expands her amber eyes:
Near and more near Grimalkin draws :
She wags her tail, portends her paws;
Then, springing on her thoughtless prey,
She bore the vicious bird away.

Thus, in her cruelty and pride,
The wicked wanton Sparrow died.

B3

2

AN AN

ESSAY UPON SATIRE

DRYDEN and BUCKINGHAM.

HOW dull and how insensible a beat

Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!

Philofophers and poets vainly strove
In ev'ry age the lumpish mass to move:
But those were pedants, when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to inftruct but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way.
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the reft,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their fouleft faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In fatire too the wife took diff'rent ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpnefs blame,
Whilft others laugh'd, and scorn'd them into shame.
But, of these two, the last succeeded beft,

As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.

Yet,

i

Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And cenfure those who cenfure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd:
Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Befides, 'tis labour loft; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Afton teach ?
Tis being devout at play, wife at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obfcurely in the wisest mind';
That litttle speck which all the reft does spoil,
To wash off that, would be a noble toil;
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all censure too, each little wit
Will be so glad to fee the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of fuch correction will have cause to boaft,

In such a fatire all would feek a share,

And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers too must pine and die,
To fee their antiquated wit laid by;

Like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so foon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:

10

Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear
Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight:
Of fuch a wretched rabble who would write?
Much less half wits: that's more against our rules
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as filly as Dunbar ?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr ?
The cunning courtier should be flighted too,
Who with dull knav'ry makes so much ado,
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too faft,
Like Æfop's fox, becomes a prey at laft.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easy to be blam'd;

STEYDE

"

JAR

With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other :
Yet faunt'ring Charles, between his beaftly brace,
Meets with diffembling still in either place,

Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other fold him:
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep:
But who can rail so long as he can fleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
Falfe, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred ?

Earnely

}