A
True
TALE
.
A
mother
,
who
vast
Pleasure
finds
In
modelling
her
Childrens
Minds
;
With
whom
,
in
exquisite
Delight
,
She
passes
many
a
Winter
Night
;
Mingles
in
ev'ry
Play
,
to
find
What
Byass
Nature
gave
the
Mind
;
Resolving
thence
to
take
her
Aim
,
To
guide
them
to
the
Realms
of
Fame
;
And
wisely
make
those
Realms
their
Way
To
Regions
of
eternal
Day
;
Each
boist'rous
Passion
to
controul
,
And
early
humanize
the
Soul
;
In
simple
Tales
,
beside
the
Fire
,
The
noblest
Notions
would
inspire
:
Her
Children
,
conscious
of
her
Care
,
Transported
,
hung
around
her
Chair
.
Of
Scripture-Heroes
she
would
tell
,
Whose
Names
they
lisp'd
,
ere
they
could
spell
:
The
Mother
then
,
delighted
,
smiles
;
And
shews
the
Story
on
the
Tiles
.
At
other
Times
,
her
Themes
would
be
The
Sages
of
Antiquity
;
Who
left
immortal
Names
behind
,
By
proving
Blessings
to
their
Kind
.
Again
,
she
takes
another
Scope
,
And
tells
of
Addison
,
and
Pope
.
Studious
to
let
her
Children
know
The
various
Turns
of
Things
below
;
—
How
Virtue
here
was
oft
oppress'd
,
To
shine
more
glorious
with
the
Bless'd
;
Told
Tully's
and
the
Gracchi's
Doom
,
The
Patriots
,
and
the
Pride
of
Rome
.
Then
bless'd
the
Drapier's
happier
Fate
,
Who
sav'd
,
and
lives
to
guard
the
State
.
Some
Comedies
gave
great
Delight
,
And
entertain'd
them
many
a
Night
:
Others
could
no
Admittance
find
,
Forbid
,
as
Poison
to
the
Mind
:
Those
Authors
Wit
and
Sense
,
said
she
,
But
heighten
their
Impiety
.
This
happy
Mother
met
,
one
Day
,
The
Book
of
Fables
,
writ
by
Gay
;
And
told
her
Children
,
Here's
a
Treasure
,
A
Fund
of
Wisdom
,
and
of
Pleasure
!
Such
Morals
,
and
so
finely
writ
;
Such
Decency
,
good
Sense
,
and
Wit
!
Well
has
the
Poet
found
the
Art
,
To
raise
the
Mind
,
and
mend
the
Heart
.
Her
fav'rite
Son
the
Volume
seiz'd
;
And
,
as
he
read
,
seem'd
highly
pleas'd
;
Made
such
Reflections
ev'ry
Page
;
The
Mother
thought
above
his
Age
;
Delighted
read
,
but
scarce
was
able
To
finish
the
concluding
Fable
.
What
ails
my
Child
?
the
Mother
cries
:
Whose
Sorrows
now
have
fill'd
your
Eyes
?
O
dear
Mamma
,
can
he
want
Friends
,
Who
writes
for
such
exalted
Ends
?
O
base
,
degen'rate
human
Kind
!
Had
I
a
Fortune
to
my
Mind
,
Should
Gay
complain
?
But
now
,
alas
!
Thro'
what
a
World
am
I
to
pass
?
Where
Friendship
is
an
empty
Name
,
And
Merit
scarcely
paid
in
Fame
?
Resolv'd
to
lull
his
Woes
to
Rest
,
She
tells
him
,
He
should
hope
the
best
:
This
has
been
yet
Gay's
Case
,
I
own
;
But
now
his
Merit's
amply
known
.
Content
that
tender
Heart
of
thine
:
He'll
be
the
Care
of
Caroline
.
Who
thus
instructs
the
royal
Race
,
Must
have
a
Pension
,
or
a
Place
.
Mamma
,
if
you
were
Queen
,
says
he
,
And
such
a
Book
were
writ
for
me
,
I
find
'tis
so
much
to
your
Taste
,
That
Gay
would
keep
his
Coach
at
least
.
My
Son
,
what
you
suppose
,
is
true
:
I
see
its
Excellence
in
you
.
Poets
who
write
to
mend
the
Mind
,
A
royal
Recompence
should
find
.
But
I
am
barr'd
by
Fortune's
Frowns
,
From
the
best
Privilege
of
Crowns
;
The
glorious
,
godlike
Pow'r
to
bless
,
And
raise
up
Merit
in
Distress
.
But
,
dear
Mamma
,
I
long
to
know
,
Were
you
the
Queen
,
what
you'd
bestow
.
What
I'd
bestow
,
says
she
,
my
Dear
?
At
least
,
a
thousand
Pounds
a
Year
.