For when the herd, sufficed, did late repair, To ferny heaths, and to their forest lair, She made a mannerly excuse to stay, Proffering the Hind to wait her half the way: That, since the sky was clear, an hour of talk Might help her to beguile the tedious walk. With much good-will the motion was embraced, 560 To chat a while on their adventures pass'd: Nor had the grateful Hind so soon forgot Her friend and fellow-sufferer in the Plot. Yet, wondering how of late she grew estranged, Her forehead cloudy, and her countenance changed, She thought this hour the occasion would present To learn her secret cause of discontent, Which well she hoped might be with ease redress'd, Considering her a well-bred civil beast, And more a gentlewoman than the rest. 570 After some common talk what rumours ran, The lady of the spotted muff began. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 94: 'Hare:' the Quakers.] [Footnote 95: 'Ape:' latitudinarians in general.] [Footnote 96: 'Reynard:' the Arians.] [Footnote 97: 'Bilanders:' an old word for a coasting boat.] [Footnote 98: 'First Apostate:' Arius.] [Footnote 99: 'Wolf:' Presbytery.] [Footnote 100: 'Many a year:' referring to the price put on the head of wolves in Wales.] [Footnote 101: 'Kennel:' Geneva.] [Footnote 102: 'Puddle:' its lake.] [Footnote 103: 'Mighty hunter of his race:' Nimrod.] [Footnote 104: 'Panther:' Church of England.] [Footnote 105: 'Lion:' Henry VIII.] [Footnote 106: 'Isgrim:' the wolf.] [Footnote 107: 'Lion:' James II.] PART II. Dame, said the Panther, times are mended well, Since late among the Philistines[108] you fell. The toils were pitch'd, a spacious tract of ground With expert huntsmen was encompass'd round; The enclosure narrow'd; the sagacious power 5 Of hounds and death drew nearer every hour. 'Tis true, the younger Lion[109] 'scaped the snare, But all your priestly Calves[110] lay struggling there, As sacrifices on their altar laid; While you, their careful mother, wisely fled, 10 Not trusting destiny to save your head; For, whate'er promises you have applied To your unfailing Church, the surer side Is four fair legs in danger to provide. And whate'er tales of Peter's chair you tell, Yet, saving reverence of the miracle, The better luck was yours to 'scape so well.