FABLE
[
23
]
XXIII
.
The
Old
Woman
and
her
Cats
.
Who
friendship
with
a
knave
hath
made
Is
judg'd
a
partner
in
the
trade
.
The
matron
,
who
conducts
abroad
A
willing
nymph
,
is
thought
a
bawd
;
And
if
a
modest
girl
is
seen
With
one
who
cures
a
lover's
spleen
,
We
guess
her
,
not
extreamly
nice
,
And
only
wish
to
know
her
price
.
'Tis
thus
,
that
on
the
choice
of
friends
Our
good
or
evil
name
depends
.
A
wrinkled
hag
,
of
wicked
fame
,
Beside
a
little
smoaky
flame
Sate
hov'ring
,
pinch'd
with
age
and
frost
;
Her
shrivell'd
hands
,
with
veins
embost
,
Upon
her
knees
her
weight
sustains
,
While
palsie
shook
her
crazy
brains
;
She
mumbles
forth
her
backward
prayers
,
An
untam'd
scold
of
fourscore
years
.
About
her
swarm'd
a
num'rous
brood
Of
Cats
,
who
lank
with
hunger
mew'd
.
Teaz'd
with
their
crys
her
choler
grew
,
And
thus
she
sputter'd
.
Hence
,
ye
crew
.
Fool
that
I
was
,
to
entertain
Such
imps
,
such
fiends
,
a
hellish
train
!
Had
ye
been
never
hous'd
and
nurst
,
I
,
for
a
witch
,
had
ne'er
been
curst
.
To
you
I
owe
,
that
crouds
of
boys
Worry
me
with
eternal
noise
;
Straws
laid
across
my
pace
retard
,
The
horse-shoe's
nail'd
(
each
threshold's
guard
)
The
stunted
broom
the
wenches
hide
,
For
fear
that
I
should
up
and
ride
;
They
stick
with
pins
my
bleeding
seat
,
And
bid
me
show
my
secret
teat
.
To
hear
you
prate
would
vex
a
saint
,
Who
hath
most
reason
of
complaint
?
Replys
a
Cat
.
Let's
come
to
proof
.
Had
we
ne'er
starv'd
beneath
your
roof
,
We
had
,
like
others
of
our
race
,
In
credit
liv'd
,
as
beasts
of
chace
.
'Tis
infamy
to
serve
a
hag
;
Cats
are
thought
imps
,
her
broom
a
nag
;
And
boys
against
our
lives
combine
,
Because
,
'tis
said
,
your
cats
have
nine
.