A Stag unharbour’d by the hounds, Forth from his woodland covert bounds, And blind with terror, at th’ alarm Of death, makes to a neighb’ring farm; There snug conceals him in some straw, Which in an ox’s stall he saw. “Wretch that thou art!” a bullock cried, “That com’st within this place to hide; By trusting man you are undone, And into sure destruction run.” But he with suppliant voice replies: “Do you but wink with both your eyes, I soon shall my occasions shape, To make from hence a fair escape.” The day is spent, the night succeeds, The herdsman comes, the cattle feeds, But nothing sees--then to and fro Time after time the servants go; Yet not a soul perceives the case. The steward passes by the place, Himself no wiser than the rest. The joyful Stag his thanks address’d To all the Oxen, that he there Had found a refuge in despair. “We wish you well,” an Ox return’d, “But for your life are still concern’d, For if old Argus come, no doubt, His hundred eyes will find you out.” Scarce had the speaker made an end, When from the supper of a friend The master enters at the door, And, seeing that the steers were poor Of late, advances to the rack. “Why were the fellow’s hands so slack? Here’s hardly any straw at all, Brush down those cobwebs from the wall. Pray how much labour would it ask?” While thus he undertakes the task, To dust, and rummage by degrees, The Stag’s exalted horns he sees: Then calling all his folks around, He lays him breathless on the ground. The master, as the tale declares, Looks sharpest to his own affairs. EPILOGUE. A statue of great cost and fame Th’ Athenians raised to Esop’s name, Him setting on th’ eternal base, Whom servile rank could not disgrace; That they might teach to all mankind The way to honor’s unconfined, That glory’s due to rising worth, And not alone to pomp and birth. Since then another seized the post Lest I priority should boast, This pow’r and praise was yet my own, That he should not excel alone: Nor is this Envy’s jealous ire, But Emulation’s genuine fire. And if Rome should approve my piece, She’ll soon have more to rival Greece. But should th’ invidious town declare Against my plodding over-care, They cannot take away, nor hurt Th’ internal conscience of desert. If these my studies reach their aim, And, reader, your attention claim, If your perception fully weighs The drift of these my labour’d lays; Then such success precludes complaint. But if the Picture which I paint Should happen to attract their sight, Whom luckless Nature brought to light, Who scorn the labours of a man, And when they carp do all they can; Yet must this fatal cause to mourn With all its bitterness be borne, Till fortune be ashamed of days, When genius fails, and int’rest sways. BOOK III. PROLOGUE, TO EUTYCHUS.