Your inference would be strong, the Hind replied,
  If yours were in effect the suffering side: 
  Your clergy’s sons their own in peace possess,
  Nor are their prospects in reversion less. 
  My proselytes are struck with awful dread; 380
  Your bloody comet-laws hang blazing o’er their head;
  The respite they enjoy but only lent,
  The best they have to hope, protracted punishment. 
  Be judge yourself, if interest may prevail,
  Which motives, yours or mine, will turn the scale. 
  While pride and pomp allure, and plenteous ease,
  That is, till man’s predominant passions cease,
  Admire no longer at my slow increase.

   By education most have been misled;
  So they believe, because they so were bred. 390
  The priest continues what the nurse began,
  And thus the child imposes on the man. 
  The rest I named before, nor need repeat: 
  But interest is the most prevailing cheat,
  The sly seducer both of age and youth;
  They study that, and think they study truth. 
  When interest fortifies an argument,
  Weak reason serves to gain the will’s assent;
  For souls, already warp’d, receive an easy bent. 
  Add long prescription of establish’d laws, 400
  And pique of honour to maintain a cause,
  And shame of change, and fear of future ill,
  And zeal, the blind conductor of the will;
  And chief among the still-mistaking crowd,
  The fame of teachers obstinate and proud,
  And, more than all, the private judge allow’d;
  Disdain of Fathers which the dance began,
  And last, uncertain whose the narrower span,
  The clown unread, and half-read gentleman.

    To this the Panther, with a scornful smile:  410
  Yet still you travel with unwearied toil,
  And range around the realm without control,
  Among my sons for proselytes to prowl,
  And here and there you snap some silly soul. 
  You hinted fears of future change in state;
  Pray heaven you did not prophesy your fate! 
  Perhaps you think your time of triumph near,
  But may mistake the season of the year;
  The Swallow’s[125] fortune gives you cause to fear.

    For charity, replied the matron, tell 420
  What sad mischance those pretty birds befell.

    Nay, no mischance, the savage dame replied,
  But want of wit in their unerring guide,
  And eager haste, and gaudy hopes, and giddy pride. 
  Yet, wishing timely warning may prevail,
  Make you the moral, and I’ll tell the tale.

    The Swallow, privileged above the rest
  Of all the birds, as man’s familiar guest,
  Pursues the sun in summer, brisk and bold,
  But wisely shuns the persecuting cold:  430
  Is well to chancels and to chimneys known,