10
  What care, what industry, what pains! 
  What universal silence reigns. 
     Ringwood, a dog of little fame,
  Young, pert, and ignorant of game,
  At once displays his babbling throat;
  The pack, regardless of the note,
  Pursue the scent; with louder strain
  He still persists to vex the train. 
     The huntsman to the clamour flies;
  The smacking lash he smartly plies.
20
  His ribs all welked, with howling tone
  The puppy thus expressed his moan: 
     ’I know the music of my tongue
  Long since the pack with envy stung. 
  What will not spite?  These bitter smarts
  I owe to my superior parts.’ 
     ‘When puppies prate,’ the huntsman cried,
  ’They show both ignorance and pride: 
  Fools may our scorn, not envy raise,
  For envy is a kind of praise.
30
  Had not thy forward noisy tongue
  Proclaimed thee always in the wrong,
  Thou might’st have mingled with the rest,
  And ne’er thy foolish nose confess’d. 
  But fools, to talking ever prone,
  Are sure to make their follies known.’

* * * * *

  FABLE XLV.

  THE POET AND THE ROSE.

  I hate the man who builds his name
  On ruins of another’s fame. 
  Thus prudes, by characters o’erthrown,
  Imagine that they raise their own. 
  Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
  Think slander can transplant the bays. 
  Beauties and bards have equal pride,
  With both all rivals are decried. 
  Who praises Lesbia’s eyes and feature,
  Must call her sister, awkward creature;
10
  For the kind flattery’s sure to charm,
  When we some other nymph disarm. 
     As in the cool of early day
  A poet sought the sweets of May,
  The garden’s fragrant breath ascends,
  And every stalk with odour bends. 
  A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired,
  Thus singing as the muse inspired: 
  ’Go, rose, my Chloe’s bosom grace;
     How happy should I prove,
20
  Might I supply that envied place
     With never fading love! 
  There, phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
  Involved in fragrance, burn and die! 
  Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find
     More fragrant roses there;
  I see thy withering head reclined
     With envy and despair! 
  One common fate we both must prove;
  You die with envy, I with love.’
30
     ‘Spare your comparisons,’ replied
  An angry rose, who grew beside. 
  ’Of all mankind, you should not flout us;
  What can a poet do without us! 
  In every love-song roses bloom;
  We lend you colour and perfume. 
  Does it to Chloe’s charms conduce,
  To found her praise on our abuse? 
  Must we, to flatter her, be made
  To wither, envy, pine and fade?’
40

* * * * *

FABLE XLVI.