For parents, to their offspring blind,
  Consult, nor parts, nor turn of mind;
  But even in infancy decree
  What this, what t’other son should be.
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  Had you with judgment weighed the case,
  Their genius thus had fixed their place: 
  The swan had learnt the sailor’s art;
  The cock had played the soldier’s part;
  The spider in the weaver’s trade
  With credit had a fortune made;
  But for the fool, in every class
  The blockhead had appeared an ass.’

* * * * *

FABLE XV.

THE COOK-MAID, THE TURNSPIT, AND THE OX.

TO A POOR MAN.

Consider man in every sphere,
Then tell me is your lot severe? 
’Tis murmur, discontent, distrust,
That makes you wretched.  God is just. 
I grant, that hunger 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 restless, needy crew: 
Show me the happier man than you.
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Adam, though blest above his kind,
For want of social woman pined,
Eve’s wants the subtle serpent saw,
Her fickle taste transgressed the law: 
Thus fell our sires; and their disgrace
The curse entailed on human race. 
When Philip’s son, by glory led,
Had o’er the globe his empire spread;
When altars to his name were dressed,
That he was man, his tears confessed.
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The hopes of avarice are check’d: 
The proud man always wants respect. 
What various wants on power attend! 
Ambition never gains its end. 
Who hath not heard the rich complain
Of surfeits and corporeal pain? 
He, barred from every use of wealth,
Envies the ploughman’s strength and health. 
Another in a beauteous wife
Finds all the miseries of life: 
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Domestic jars and jealous fear
Embitter all his days with care. 
This wants an heir, the line is lost: 
Why was that vain entail engross’d? 
Canst thou discern another’s mind? 
Why is’t you envy?  Envy’s blind. 
Tell Envy, when she would annoy,
That thousands want what you enjoy. 
’The dinner must be dished at one. 
Where’s this vexatious turnspit gone?
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Unless the skulking cur is caught,
The sirloin’s spoiled, and I’m in fault.’ 
Thus said:  (for sure you’ll think it fit
That I the cook-maid’s oaths omit)
With all the fury of a cook,
Her cooler kitchen Nan forsook. 
The broomstick o’er her head she waves;
She sweats, she stamps, she puffs, she raves. 
The sneaking cur before her flies: 
She whistles, calls; fair speech she tries.
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These nought avail.  Her choler burns;
The fist and cudgel threat by turns;
With hasty stride she presses near;
He slinks aloof, and howls with fear. 
‘Was ever cur so cursed!’ he cried,
’What star did at my birth preside? 
Am I for life by compact bound