The master saw his woeful plight, His limbs, that totter'd with his weight, And friendly to the stable led, And saw him litter'd, dress'd, and fed. In slothful ease all night he lay; The servants rose at break of day; The market calls.--Along the road His back must bear the pond'rous load; In vain he struggles, or complains-- Incessant blows reward his pains. To-morrow varies but his toil; Chain'd to the plough he breaks the soil: While scanty meals at night repay The painful labours of the day. Subdu'd by toil, with anguish rent, His self-upbraidings found a vent. Wretch that I am! he sighing said, By arrogance and folly led; Had but my restive youth been brought To learn the lesson NATURE taught, Then had I, like my sires of yore, The prize from ev'ry courser bore; While man bestow'd rewards and praise, And females crown'd my latter days. Now lasting servitude's my lot, My birth contemn'd, my speed forgot; Doom'd am I, for my pride, to bear A living death from year to year. FABLE XIII. THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE. To know the MISTRESS'S humour right, See if her maids are clean and tight, If BETTY waits without her stays, She copies but her LADY'S ways; When MISS comes in with boist'rous shout, And drops no court'sey going out, Depend upon't, MAMMA is one Who reads, or drinks, too much alone. If bottled beer her thirst assuage, She feels enthusiastic rage, And burns with ardour to inherit The gifts and workings of the spirit. If learning crack her giddy brains, No remedy but death remains. Sum up the various ills of life, And all are sweet to such a wife. At home, superior wit she vaunts, And twits her husband with his wants; Her ragged offspring all around, Like pigs, are wallowing on the ground. Impatient ever of controul, And knows no order but of soul; With books her litter'd floor is spread, With nameless authors never read; Foul linen, petticoats, and lace, Fill up the intermediate space. Abroad, at visitings, her tongue Is never still, and always wrong; All meanings she defines away, And stands with truth and sense at bay. If e'er she meets a gentle heart, Skill'd in the housewife's useful art; Who makes her family her care, And builds contentment's temple there; She starts at such mistakes in nature, And cries, LORD help us! what a creature! Melissa, if the moral strike, You'll find the fable not unlike.