The Brass-Pot, and Stone-Jugg. A FABLE. Anne Finch (née Kingsmill), countess of Winchilsea Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T94539 pp. 274-5 K076314.000 Winchilsea, Anne Kingsmill Finch, Countess of, 1661-1720. Miscellany poems, on several occasions: Written by the Right Honble Anne, Countess of Winchilsea. London printed for J. B. and sold by Benj. Tooke, William Taylor, and James Round 1713 pp. 55-58. [8],390p. ; 8⁰.

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The Brass-Pot , and Stone-Jugg . A FABLE . A Brazen Pot , by scouring vext , With Beef and Pudding still perplext , Resolv'd t' attempt a nobler Life , Urging the Jugg to share the Strife : Brother , quoth he , ( Love to endear ) Why shou'd We Two continue here , To serve and cook such homely Cheer ? Who tho' we move with awkward pace , Your stony Bowels , and my Face , Abroad can't miss of Wealth and Place . Then let us instantly be going , And see what in the World is Doing . The bloated Jugg , supine and lazy , Who made no Wish , but to be easy , Nor , like it's Owner , e'er did think Of ought , but to be fill'd with Drink ; Yet something mov'd by this fine Story , And frothing higher with Vain-glory , Reply'd , he never wanted Metal , But had not Sides , like sturdy Kettle , That in a Croud cou'd shove and bustle , And to Preferment bear the Justle ; When the first Knock would break His Measures , And stop his Rise to Place and Treasures . Sure ( quoth the Pot ) thy Scull is thicker , Than ever was thy muddiest Liquor : Go I not with thee , for thy Guard , To take off Blows , and Dangers ward ? And hast thou never heard , that Cully Is borne thro' all by daring Bully ? Your self ( reply'd the Drink-conveigher ) May be my Ruin and Betrayer : A Superiority you boast , And dress the Meat , I but the Toast : Than mine your Constitution's stronger , And in Fatigues can hold out longer ; And shou'd one Bang from you be taken , I into Nothing shou'd be shaken . A d'autre cry'd the Pot in scorn , Dost think , there's such a Villain born , That , when he proffers Aid and Shelter , Will rudely sall to Helter-Skelter ? No more , but follow to the Road , Where Each now drags his pond'rous Load , And up the Hill were almost clamber'd , When ( may it ever be remember'd ! ) Down rolls the Jugg , and after rattles The most perfidious of all Kettles ; At every Molehill gives a Jump , Nor rests , till by obdurate Thump , The Pot of Stone , to shivers broken , Sends each misguided Fool a Token : To show them , by this fatal Test , That Equal Company is best , Where none Oppress , nor are Opprest .