THE SHEPHERD’S DOG AND THE WOLF.

  A wolf, with hunger fierce and bold,
  Ravaged the plains, and thinned the fold: 
  Deep in the wood secure he lay,
  The thefts of night regaled the day. 
  In vain the shepherd’s wakeful care
  Had spread the toils, and watched the snare: 
  In vain the dog pursued his pace,
  The fleeter robber mocked the chase. 
     As Lightfoot ranged the forest round,
  By chance his foe’s retreat he found.
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     ’Let us awhile the war suspend,
  And reason as from friend to friend.’ 
     ‘A truce?’ replies the wolf.  ’Tis done. 
  The dog the parley thus begun: 
     ’How can that strong intrepid mind
  Attack a weak defenceless kind? 
  Those jaws should prey on nobler food,
  And drink the boar’s and lion’s blood;
  Great souls with generous pity melt,
  Which coward tyrants never felt.
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  How harmless is our fleecy care! 
  Be brave, and let thy mercy spare.’ 
     ‘Friend,’ says the wolf, ’the matter weigh;
  Nature designed us beasts of prey;
  As such when hunger finds a treat,
  ’Tis necessary wolves should eat. 
  If mindful of the bleating weal,
  Thy bosom burn with real zeal;
  Hence, and thy tyrant lord beseech;
  To him repeat the moving speech;
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  A wolf eats sheep but now and then,
  Ten thousands are devoured by men. 
  An open foe may prove a curse,
  But a pretended friend is worse.’

* * * * *

FABLE XVIII.

THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY AND EVERYBODY.

  Lest men suspect your tale untrue,
  Keep probability in view. 
  The traveller leaping o’er those bounds,
  The credit of his book confounds. 
  Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
  Makes even his real courage doubted: 
  But flattery never seems absurd;
  The flattered always take your word: 
  Impossibilities seem just;
  They take the strongest praise on trust.
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  Hyperboles, though ne’er so great,
  Will still come short of self-conceit. 
     So very like a painter drew,
  That every eye the picture knew;
  He hit complexion, feature, air,
  So just, the life itself was there. 
  No flattery with his colours laid,
  To bloom restored the faded maid;
  He gave each muscle all its strength,
  The mouth, the chin, the nose’s length.
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  His honest pencil touched with truth,
  And marked the date of age and youth. 
  He lost his friends, his practice failed;
  Truth should not always be revealed;
  In dusty piles his pictures lay,
  For no one sent the second pay. 
  Two busts, fraught with every grace
  A Venus’ and Apollo’s face,
  He placed in view; resolved to please,
  Whoever sat, he drew from these,
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  From these corrected every feature,