And scarce had pass'd a fingle pole,
When Pufs had almost reach'd the goal.
Friend Tortoife, quoth the jeering Hare,
Your burthen's more than you can bear,,
To help your speed, it were as well
That I fhould ease you of your shell :...
Jog on a little faster pr'ythee,
I'll take a nap, and then be with thee.
So faid, fo done, and fafely fure,
For fay, what conquest more secure?
Whene'er he wak'd (that's all that's in it).
He could o'ertake him in a minute.
The Tortoife heard his taunting jeer,
But ftill refolv'd to perfevere,
Still drawl'd along, as who should say,
I'll win, like Fabius, by delay;
On to the goal securely crept,
While Puss unknowing soundly slept.
The bets were won, the Hare awake,
When thus the victor Tortoise spake.
Pufs, tho' I own thy quicker parts,
Things are not always done by starts.
You may deride my awkward pace,
But flow and steady wins the race.
The SATYR and PEDLAR, 1757.
RDS are, fo Wollafton defines,
Of our ideas merely figns,
Which have a pow'r at will to vary,
As being vague and arbitrary.
Now damn'd for instance—all agree,
Damn'd's the fuperlative degree;
Means that alone, and nothing more,
However taken heretofore;
Damn'd is a word can't ftand alone,
Which has no meaning of its own,
But fignifies or bad or good
Just as its neighbour's understood.
Examples we may find enough,
Damn'd high, damn'd low, damn'd fine, damn'd stuff.
So fares it too with its relation,
I mean its fubftantive, damnation.
The wit with metaphors makes bold,
And tells you he's damnation cold;
And here a fable I remember
Once in the middle of December,
When ev'ry mead in fnow is loft,
And ev'ry river bound with froft,
When families get all together,
And feelingly talk o'er the weather;
When
pox on the descriptive rhyme —
In fhort it was the winter time.
It was a Pedlar's happy lot,
To fall into a Satyr's cot:
Shiv'ring with cold, and almost froze,
With pearly drop upon his nose,
His fingers' ends all pinch'd to death,
He blew upon them with his breath.
"Friend, quoth the Satyr, what intends
"That blowing on thy fingers ends?
"It is to warm them thus I blow,
"For they are froze as cold as fnow.
"And fo inclement has it been
"I'm like a cake of ice within."
Come, quoth the Satyr, comfort, man!
I'll chear thy infide, if I can;
You're welcome in my homely cottage
To a warm fire, and mess of pottage.
This faid, the Satyr, nothing loth,
A bowl prepar'd of sav'ry broth,
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As fmoaking on the board it stood.
But, though the very steam arose
With grateful odour to his nose,
One fingle fip he ventur❜d not,
The gruel was fo wond'rous hot.
He blows it, 'till its cool enough.
Why how now, Pedlar, what's the matter?
Still at thy blowing! quoth the Satyr.
I blow to cool it, cries the Clown,
That I may get the liquor down:
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