THE COOK-MAID, THE TURNSPIT, AND THE OX.
ONSIDER man in every sphere,
Then tell me, is your lot fevere?
'Tis murmur, difcontent, diftruft,
That makes you wretched. God is just.
I grant, the hungry must be fed,
That toil, too, earns thy daily bread.
What then? Thy wants are seen and known ;
But every mortal feels his own.
We 're born a restlefs, needy crew:
Shew me the happier man than you.
Adam, though bleft above his kind,
For want of focial woman pin'd.
Eve's wants the subtle ferpent faw,
Her fickle tafte tranfgrefs'd the law:
Thus fell our fire; and their difgrace
The curfe entail'd on human race.
When Philip's fon, by glory led,
Had o'er the globe his empire fpread;
When altars to his name were drefs'd;
That he was man, his tears confefs'd.
The hopes of avarice are check'd: The proud man always wants respect. What various wants on power attend! Ambition never gains its end.
This wants an her; the line is loft:
Why was that vain entail engrost ?
Canft thou discern another's mind?
What is 't you envy? Envy's blind.
Tell Envy, when she would annoy,
That thousands want what you enjoy.
"The dinner must be difh'd at one.
Where's this vexatious Turnfpit gone ?
Unless the skulking Cur is caught,
The furloin's fpoilt, and I'm in fault."
Thus faid, (for fure you 'll think it fit
That I the Cook-maid's oaths omit)
With all the fury of a cook,
Her cooler kitchen Nan forfook:
The broomstick o'er her head the waves;
She fweats, she stamps, the puffs, the raves:
The fneaking Cur before her flies;
She whiftles, calls; fair fpeech fhe tries.
These nought avail. Her choler burns;
The fift and cudgel threat by turns.
With hafty stride she preffes near;
He flinks aloof, and howls with fear.
"Was ever Cur fo curs'd! (he cry'd)
What ftar did at my birth prefide!
Am I for life by compact bound
To tread the wheel's eternal round?
Inglorious task !` of all our race
No flave is half fo mean and base.
Had Fate a kinder lot affign'd,
And form'd me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employ'd,
Had indolence and ease enjoy'd ;
And, like a gentleman, careft,
Had been the lady's favourite guest:
Or were I fprung from spaniel line,
Was his fagacious noftril mine,
By me, their never-erring guide,
From wood and plain their feasts supply'd,
Knights, 'fquires, attendant on my pace,
Had fhar'd the pleasures of the chace.
Endued with native strength and fire,
Why call'd I not the lion fire?
A lion! fuch mean views I fcorn ::
Why was I not of woman born?
Who dares with reafon's power contend?
On man we brutal flaves depend:
To him all creatures tribute pay,
And luxury employs his day."
An Ox by chance o'erheard his moan,
And thus rebuk'd the lazy drone.
"Dare you at partial Fate repine?
How kind 's your lot compar'd with mine!
'Decreed to toil, the barbarous knife
Hath fever'd me from focial life;
'Urg'd by the stimulating goad,
I drag the cuinbrous waggon's load :
"Tis mine to tame the ftubborn plain,
Break the ftiff foil, and houfe the grain:
Yet I without a muimur bear
The various lal ours of the year.
But then, confider, that one day
(Perhaps the hour 's not far away)
You, by the duties of your poft,
Shall turn the fpit when I'm the roaft;
And for reward fhall fhare the feaft,
I mean, fhall pick my bones at least."
"Till now, th' aftonifh'd Cur replies,
I look'd on all with envious eyes.
How falle we judge by what appears!
All creatures feel their feveral cares.
If thus yon' mighty beaft complains ;
Perhaps man knows fuperior pains.
Let envy then no more torment:
Think on the Ox, and learn content."
Thus faid, clofe following at her heel,
With cheerful heart he mounts the wheel.
THE RAVEN, THE SEXTON, AND THE EARTH-WORM.
LAURA, methinks you 're over-nice.
True; flattery is a fhocking vice.:
Yet fure, whene'er the praife is juft,
One may commend without disgust.
Am I a privilege deny'd,
Indulg'd by every tongue befide?
How fingular are all your ways!
A woman, and averfe to praise !
If 'tis offence fuch truths to tell,
Why do your merits thus excel?
Since then I dare not fpeak my mind,
A truth confpicuous to mankind;
Though in full luftre every grace
Diftinguish your celestial face;
Though beauties of inferior ray
(Like stars before the orb of day)
Turn pale and fade; I check my lays,
Admiring what I dare not praife.
If you the tribute due difdain,
The Mufe's mortifying strain
Shall, like a woman, in mere spite,
Set beauty in a moral light.
Though fuch revenge might fhock the ear
Of many a celebrated fair,
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