_A Cook one Day, who had been drinking, (Only as many Times, you know, You spruce, young, witty Beaux will do, To avoid the dreadful Pain of thinking) Had Orders sent him to behead A Goose, like any Chaplain fed. He took such Pains to set his Knife right, 'T had done one good t'have lost one's Life by't. But many Men have many Minds, There's various Tastes in various Kinds: A Swan (who by Mistake he seiz'd) With wretched Life was better pleas'd: For as he went to give the Blow, In tuneful Notes she let him know, She neither was a Goose, nor wish'd To make her ~Exit~ so. The Cook (who thought of nought but Blood, Except it were the Grease, For that you know's his Fees) To hear her sing, in great Amazement stood. Cod's fish! quoth he, 'twas well you spoke, For I was just upon the Stroke: Your Feathers have so much of Goose, A drunken Cook cou'd do no less Than think you one: That you'll confess: But y' have a Voice so soft, so sweet, That rather than you shall be eat, The House shall starve for want of Meat: And so he turn'd her loose._ _To ~Oron~._] Now, Sir, what say you? will you be the Swan, or the Goose? _Oron._ The Choice can't, sure, be difficult to make; I hope you will excuse my youthful Heat, Young Men and Lovers have a Claim to Pardon: But since the Faults of Age have no such Plea, I hope you'll be more cautious of offending. The Flame that warms _Euphronia_'s Heart and mine, Has long, alas! been kindled in our Breasts: Even Years are past since our two Souls were wed, 'Twou'd be Adultery but to wish to part 'em. And wou'd a Lump of Clay alone content you, A Mistress cold and senseless in your Arms, Without the least Remains or Signs of Life, Except her Sighs to mourn her absent Lover? Whilst you shou'd press her in your eager Arms, With fond Desire and Extasy of Love, Wou'd it not pierce you to the very Soul, To see her Tears run trickling down her Cheeks, And know their Fountain meant 'em all to me? Cou'd you bear this? Yet thus the Gods revenge themselves on those Who stop the happy Course of mutual Love. If you must be unfortunate one way, Choose that where Justice may support your Grief, And shun the weighty Curse of injur'd Lovers. _Esop._ Why, this is pleading like a Swan, indeed! Were any Thing at Stake but my _Euphronia_---- _Oron._ Your _Euphronia_! Sir---- _Esop._ The Goose----take heed---- Were any Thing, I say, at Stake but her, Your Plea wou'd be too strong to be refus'd. But our Debate's about a Lady, Sir, That's young, that's beautiful, that's made for Love. ----So am not I, you'll say: But you're mistaken; I'm made to love, tho' not to be belov'd. I have a Heart like yours; I've Folly too: I've every Instrument of Love like others.