The SOW and the PEACOCK. A FABLE. IN Days of Yore, as Authors tell, When Beasts and Birds cou'd read and spell, (No matter where, in Town or City,) There liv'd a Swine exceeding witty, And for the Beauties of her Mind, Excelling all her bristl'd Kind: But yet to mortify her Pride, She found at last her failing Side. Philosophy she had good Store, Had ponder'd Seneca all o'er; Yet all Precautions useless prove Against the Pow'r of mighty Love. It happen'd on a sultry Day, Upon her fav'rite Couch she lay: 'Twas a round Dunghil soft and warm, O'er-shadow'd by a neighb'ring Barn, When lo, her winking Eyes behold A Creature with a Neck of Gold, With painted Wings and gorgeous Train, That sparkl'd like the starry Plain: His Neck and Breast all brilliant shine Against the Sun: The dazzl'd Swine, Who never saw the like before, Began to wonder and adore; But seeing him so fair and nice, She left her Dunghil in a trice, And (fond to please) the grunting Elf Began to wash and prune herself, And from the stinking Wave she run To dry her Carcase in the Sun: Then rubb'd her Sides against a Tree, And now as clean as Hogs can be, With cautious Air and doubtful Breast, The glitt'ring Peacock thus addrest: 'Sir; I, a homely rural Swine, 'Can boast of nothing fair nor fine, 'No Dainties in our Troughts appear, 'But as you seem a Stranger here, 'Be pleas'd to walk into my Sty, 'A little Hut as plain as I; 'Pray venture through the humble Door; 'And tho' your Entertainment's poor, 'With me you shall be sure to find 'An open Heart and honest Mind; 'And that's a Dainty seldom found 'On Cedar Flow'rs and City Ground. Thus far the Sow had preach'd by rule, She preach'd, alas! but to a Fool; For this same Peacock (you must know) Had he been Man, had been a Beau: And had (like them) but mighty little To say: So squirted out his Spittle. And with an Air that testified, He'd got at least his share of Pride, He thus began: 'Why, truly now, 'You're very civil Mrs. Sow: 'But I am very clean, d'ye see? 'Your Sty is not a Place for me. 'Shou'd I go through that narrow Door, 'My Feathers might be soil'd or tore; 'Or scented with unsav'ry Fumes: 'And what am I without my Plumes? The much offended Sow replies, (And turns a-squint her narrow Eyes) 'Sir, you're incorrigibly vain, 'To value thus a shining Train; 'For when the northern Wind shall blow, 'And send us Hail, and Sleet, and Snow; 'How will you save from such keen Weathers 'Your Merit? — Sir, I mean your Feathers: 'As for myself: — to think that I 'Shou'd lead an Idiot to my Sty, 'Or strive to make an Oaf my Friend, 'It makes my Bristles stand an end: 'But for the future when I see 'A Bird that much resembles thee, 'I'll ever take it as a Rule, 'The shining Case contains a Fool.