To tread the wheel’s eternal round? 
Inglorious task!  Of all our race
No slave is half so mean and base.
60
Had fate a kinder lot assigned,
And formed me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employed,
Had indolence and ease enjoyed;
And, like a gentleman, caress’d,
Had been the lady’s favourite guest. 
Or were I sprung from spaniel line,
Was his sagacious nostril mine,
By me, their never-erring guide,
From wood and plain their feasts supplied
70
Knights, squires, attendant on my pace,
Had shared the pleasures of the chase. 
Endued with native strength and fire,
Why called I not the lion sire? 
A lion! such mean views I scorn. 
Why was I not of woman born? 
Who dares with reason’s power contend? 
On man we brutal slaves depend: 
To him all creatures tribute pays,
And luxury employs his days.’
80
An ox by chance o’erheard his moan,
And thus rebuked the lazy drone: 
’Dare you at partial fate repine? 
How kind’s your lot compared with mine! 
Decreed to toil, the barbarous knife
Hath severed me from social life;
Urged by the stimulating goad,
I drag the cumbrous waggon’s load: 
’Tis mine to tame the stubborn plain,
Break the stiff soil, and house the grain;
90
Yet I without a murmur bear
The various labours of the year. 
But then consider, that one day,
(Perhaps the hour’s not far away,)
You, by the duties of your post,
Shall turn the spit when I’m the roast: 
And for reward shall share the feast;
I mean, shall pick my bones at least.’ 
‘’Till now,’ the astonished cur replies,
’I looked on all with envious eyes.
100
How false we judge by what appears! 
All creatures feel their several cares. 
If thus yon mighty beast complains,
Perhaps man knows superior pains. 
Let envy then no more torment: 
Think on the ox, and learn content.’ 
Thus said:  close following at her heel,
With cheerful heart he mounts the wheel.

  FABLE XVI.

  THE RAVENS, THE SEXTON, AND THE EARTH-WORM.

  TO LAURA.

  Laura, methinks you’re over nice. 
  True, flattery is a shocking vice;
  Yet sure, whene’er the praise is just,
  One may commend without disgust. 
  Am I a privilege denied,
  Indulged by every tongue beside? 
  How singular are all your ways! 
  A woman, and averse to praise! 
  If ’tis offence such truths to tell,
  Why do your merits thus excel?
10
     Since then I dare not speak my mind,
  A truth conspicuous to mankind;
  Though in full lustre every grace
  Distinguish 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 praise. 
  If you the tribute due disdain,
  The Muse’s mortifying strain