’In this I grant that man is wise. 
  While good example they pursue,
  We must allow some praise is due;
  But when they strain beyond their guide,
  I laugh to scorn the mimic pride,
  For how fantastic is the sight,
  To meet men always bolt upright,
  Because we sometimes walk on two! 
  I hate the imitating crew.’
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* * * * *

  FABLE XLI.

  THE OWL AND THE FARMER.

  An owl of grave deport and mien,
  Who (like the Turk) was seldom seen,
  Within a barn had chose his station,
  As fit for prey and contemplation. 
  Upon a beam aloft he sits,
  And nods, and seems to think by fits. 
  So have I seen a man of news,
  Or Post-boy, or Gazette peruse;
  Smoke, nod, and talk with voice profound,
  And fix the fate of Europe round.
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  Sheaves piled on sheaves, hid all the floor;
  At dawn of morn, to view his store
  The farmer came.  The hooting guest
  His self-importance thus express’d: 
     ’Reason in man is mere pretence: 
  How weak, how shallow is his sense! 
  To treat with scorn the bird of night,
  Declares his folly, or his spite. 
  Then too, how partial is his praise! 
  The lark’s, the linnet’s chirping lays
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  To his ill-judging ears are fine;
  And nightingales are all divine. 
  But the more knowing feathered race
  See wisdom stamped upon my face. 
  Whene’er to visit light I deign,
  What flocks of fowl compose my train! 
  Like slaves they crowd my flight behind,
  And own me of superior kind.’ 
     The farmer laughed, and thus replied: 
  ’Thou dull important lump of pride,
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  Dar’st thou with that harsh grating tongue,
  Depreciate birds of warbling song? 
  Indulge thy spleen.  Know, men and fowl
  Regard thee, as thou art an owl. 
  Besides, proud blockhead, be not vain,
  Of what thou call’st thy slaves and train. 
  Few follow wisdom or her rules;
  Fools in derision follow fools.’

* * * * *

FABLE XLII.

THE JUGGLERS.

  A juggler long through all the town
  Had raised his fortune and renown;
  You’d think (so far his art transcends)
  The devil at his fingers’ ends. 
     Vice heard his fame, she read his bill;
  Convinced of his inferior skill,
  She sought his booth, and from the crowd
  Defied the man of art aloud: 
     ’Is this, then, he so famed for sleight? 
  Can this slow bungler cheat your sight!
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  Dares he with me dispute the prize? 
  I leave it to impartial eyes.’ 
     Provoked, the juggler cried, ’’tis done. 
  In science I submit to none.’ 
     Thus said, the cups and balls he played;
  By turns, this here, that there, conveyed.