I ferv'd a turn, and then was caft away;
You, like the gaudy fly, your wings display,
And fip the sweets, and bask in your great
patron's day.
This heard, the matron was not flow to find
What fort of malady had seiz'd her mind :
Difdain, with gnawing envy, fell defpight,
And canker'd malice ftood in open fight:
Ambition, intereft, pride without controul,
And jealousy, the jaundice of the soul;
Revenge, the bloody minister of ill,
With all the lean tormentors of the will.
"Twas eafy now to guess from whence arose
Her new-made union with her ancient foes,
Her forc'd civilities, her faint embrace,
Affected kindness with an alter'd face:
Yet durft she not too deeply probe the wound,
As hoping ftill the nobler parts were found:
But ftrove with anodynes to affwage the fmart,
And mildly thus her med'cine did impart.
Complaints of lovers help to ease their pain;
It fhows a rest of kindness to complain;
A friendship loth to quit its former hold ;
And confcious merit may be juftly bold..
But much more just your jealousy would fhew,
If other's good were injury to you:
Witness, ye heavens, how I rejoice to fee
Rewarded worth and rifing loyalty.
Your warrior offspring that upheld the crown,
The scarlet honor of your peaceful gown,
Are the most pleasing objects I can find,
Charms to my fight, and cordials to my mind:
When virtue fpooms before a profperous gale,
My heaving wifhes help to fill the fail;
And if my prayers for all the brave were heard, Cæfar fhould ftill have fuch, and fuch fhould still reward.
The labor'd earth your pains have fow'd and
"Tis juft you reap the product of the field:
Your's be the harveft, 'tis the beggar's gain
To glean the fallings of the loaded wain.
Such scatter'd ears as are not worth your care,
Your charity for alms may fafely spare,
For alms are but the vehicles of prayer.
My daily bread is literally implor'd;
I have no barns nor granaries to hoard.
If Cæfar to his own his hand extends,
Say which of yours his charity offends:
You know he largely gives to more than are his
friends.
Are you defrauded when he feeds the poor?
Our mite decreases nothing of your store.
I am but few, and by your fare you fee
My crying fins are not of luxury.
And makes you break our friendship's holy laws; For barefac'd envy is too base a cause.
Shew more occafion for your discontent ; Your love, the Wolf, would help you to invent : Some German quarrel, or, as times go now, Some French, where force is uppermoft, will do. When at the fountain's head, as merit ought To claim the place, you take a fwilling draught, How eafy 'tis an envious eye to throw, And tax the sheep for troubling ftreams below; Or call her (when no farther cause
you find) An enemy profefs'd of all your kind.
But then, perhaps, the wicked world woul'd think,
The Wolf defign'd to eat as well as drink.
This last allufion gall'd the Panther
Because indeed it rubb'd upon the fore.
Yet feem'd she not to winch, tho fhrewdly pain'd:
But thus her paffive character maintain’d.
I never grudg'd, whate'er my foes report,
Your flaunting fortune in the Lion's court.
You have your day, or you are much bely'd,
But I am always on the suffering fide:
You know my doctrine, and I need not say
I will not, but I cannot disobey.
On this firm principle I ever ftood;
my fons who fails to make it good, By one rebellious act renounces to my blood. Ah, faid the Hind, how many fons have Who call you mother, whom you never knew! But most of them who that relation plead, Are fuch ungracious youths as wish
They gape at rich revenues which
you hold, And fain would nibble at your grandame
Enquire into your years, and laugh to find
crazy temper shews you much declin'd.
Were you not dim and doted, you might fee
A pack of cheats that claim a pedigree,
No more of kin to you than you to me.
Do you not know, that for a little coin,
Heralds can foift a name into the line:
They ask you bleffing but for what you
But once poffefs'd of what with care you
The wanton boys would pifs upon your grave.
Your fons of latitude that court your grace,
Tho most resembling you in form and face,
Are far the worst of your pretended race.
And, but I blush your honefty to blot,
Pray God
them lawfully begot :
For in fome popish libels I have read,
The Wolf has been too busy in your bed;
At least her hinder parts, the belly-piece,
The paunch, and all that Scorpio claims, are hiș,
Their malice too a fore fufpicion brings;
For tho they dare not bark, they fnarl at kings:
Nor blame them for intruding in your line;
Fat bishoprics are still of right divine.
Think you your new French profelytes are come To starve abroad, because they starv'd at home? Your benefices twinkled from afar ; They found the new Meffiah by the star Thofe Swiffes fight on any fide for pay, And 'tis the living that conforms, not they. Mark with what management their tribes divide, Some stick to you, and fome to t'other fide, That many churches may for many mouths provide.
More vacant pulpits would more converts make; All would have latitude enough to take :
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