Fable: The Wolf and the Horse

ISgrim had all the Winter far'd
So very ill, his looks Men scar'd.
He had (poor Dog!) got an evil habit,
Of going to Bed with the Devil a bit;
So that he had contracted a meen,
Which truly represented Famine.
A filthy Figure, rude and gruff,
As hungry Bullies who lye rough.
Whilst free from Pinching and from Danger,
The Cattle lay at Rack and Manger.
When Winter quarters they forsook,
And to Encamp, the Field they took;
Hight Isgrim spy'd a sleek plump Steed,
Who with that appetite did feed,
One would have sworn, that his fresh Sallad
Was not distastful to his Palate.
At sight of Steed that's one huge bit of Fat,
Hight Isgrim's heart for joy went pit a pat.
Ah Rogue! have I found thee? how happy
Would Isgrim be, if he could but nab thee?
But I had rather now by half,
Thou wert a Mutton or a Calf.
Then could I truss thee up as readily,
As I could after eat thee greedily.
But thou art such a damn'd great Beast,
That I must plot before I feast.
Come let us plot then, pray why not?
Sure duller Dogs than I can plot.
Then Isgrim puts on Phyz of Gravity,
Phyz, that agrees with deeds of pravity;
As does with Satan Phyz of Hag.
Then Isgrim thus accosts the Nag:
Your Servant, Sir, may, please your Worship,
To let me inform you, that my Curship
Is, tho I say't, a Beast of Parts,
And right well skill'd in medicinal arts.
A Doctor who was ne'r yet gravell'd,
Who, for experience long has travel'd.
Who has had the luck to have confuted
All those with whom he e're disputed.
I've had the honour to prescribe,
Long to your Worships noble tribe.
And several worthy generous Horses,
Are now by my advice in Courses
Of which each honourable Palfrey
Is from his ailings more than half free.
I speak to your Worship in this fashion,
Because I've of your Case compassion.
For says our Art, to see a Steed,
Thus foully like your Worship feed,
Betokens great indisposition,
And calls for a severe Physician.
Now if you will but only please
To open to me your Disease;
I Doctor Isgrim without failing,
Will gratis cure your Worship's ailing.
Palfrey gave Isgrim such a cross leer,
As Horse at's Oats does roguish Ostler.
Doctor, I have, as you will find;
An Ulcer in my Foot behind.
And offer here the part affected,
To be by your Doctorship inspected.
Then Palfrey, with his lifted Foot,
Whilst Isgrim was approaching to't,
With roguish treacherous intention,
Wisely thought fit to use prevention:
And had at's ugly Face a fling,
Which Teeth from Jobbernoul did ding,
Made his Eyes stare, and his Ears sing
Then to the bloody mangled Elf,
Phyz, says the Horse, go cure thy self.
Introth, says Isgrim, wondrous sad,
What thou hast e'en deserv'd thou hast had.
You must go act the Doctor, Booby!
Yes you! incorrigible Looby!
You must go set up for a Leech!
Tho by thy actions and thy speech,
The veriest Sots may see with scorn,
That thou art Butcher bred and born.

Moral.

TO force thy Genius is a thing,
Will scorn and mischif on thee bring.
For affectation, Ape of Nature,
Is soon found out, and then all hate her.
Wh'as soon as seen no more escapes
Being laugh'd at, than your true Apes.
Who to surrounding Mob rehearse,
By looks and gestures a dumb Farce.
Of all affected Fools, the Grave
A long preheminence must have.
No folly ere can theirs surpass,
For since gravity in an Ass,
In whom 'tis natural's so ridiculous;
How must the affected grave beast tickle us?
The place for which thou art unfit,
Thou wilt decline if thou hast wit.
To which if it should threaten danger,
Take still more care to prove a Stranger.
For if in such you'l needs be doing,
Twill prove your Plague, if not your Ruine.
You can't keep long in such a Station,
Without the help of affectation;
And affectation in this case,
Has something worse than its Grimace;
Betrays your blind side to your Foes,
And lays you open to their Blows.
As in a Stream if you plunge him,
Who paddles and but half can Swim,
He strait must in it or be lost, or
With many an unnat'ral posture,
With many a sounce and many a strain,
Himself on th' adverse Flood sustain.
And if he's there attack'd by Foe,
At last must to the bottom go.
(For no Expedient can he try,
Being neither free to fight nor fly).
So one in place to which his Talent,
Compar'd is not found equivalent;
T' uphold himself in a wrong station,
Must use eternal affectation.
Must be by all Spectators seen,
With a false Face and a forc'd Meen.
By violence done to himself so harrass'd
So plagu'd, so pester'd, so embarrass'd;
His puzled mind ne'r finds Vacation,
To look before for Preservation;
Too clogg'd for dextrous quick evasion,
On any suddain nice occasion.
Can such a one himself defend
From deadliest Enemy, false Friend;
The Villain with a smiling Face,
Who stabs and damns with an Embrace?
No, as the Body, so the Mind
Can't on its guard be when confin'd
Isgrim might have been quick enouff,
To have escap'd the Steed's Rebuff:
If the grave Doctor had not been
Too careful to maintain his meen;
And too much taken up to heed
The motion or design of Steed.
For all who with dissembled meen,
Fain what they are, not would be seen;
Possessing but the Forms alone,
And not the Powers of Gifts they own;
Have for that reason Forms affected,
The more, to pass the less suspcted.
(And therefore Hypocritick Wight
Seems more devout than the Vpright).
And when their thick and gross disguise
Has serv'd to hoodwink their own Eyes:
Like Children when themselves they blind,
They' have thought no others could them find.
Tho their proceeding works effect
Contrary oft to what they expect.
As is apparent by our Fable:
For Isgrim neither Learn'd nor able,
Imagin'd he might fine for Sense,
Out of his stock of Impudence,
And positive grave Impertinence.
And thought t'enjoy a Bliss that's double,
The priviledge on't, without the trouble.
But he o' reacted so his part,
That he got nothing by't, but smart.
Which shew'd him a confounded So,
When he imagin'd he could Plot;
Because he could a Mutton ege:
They're Brains, not Teeth that serve t'intrege
And there's requir'd much more skill in,
A speculative than practick Villain.

Beware by him, and meddle not,
If thou'rt no Statesman, with a Plot.
Plots, which are dangerous edge Tools,
Have always Fatal been to Fools;
Who after all the Snares they have laid,
Have only found themselves betray'd.
And most inextricably hamper'd,
Vnless they've seasonably scamper'd.
As you perhaps have seen a Thrush,
Fluttering tangled in a Bush,
To which it has been glew'd and lung,
By birdlime made of its own Dung.
So Treason ill-contriv'd and dull,
The very Excrement of Skull,
Lays by the Heels its plotting Gull.

The Devil ow'd Tegue, without all question,
A spight when Tegue by Devil's suggestion,
Set up for Souldiering and Plotting,
Whose only Talent was Bog-trotting.
What was th' event? at every Battle,
We took whole thousands meer white Cattle,
And more were awl'd in one year i'th Field
Than other Beasts, in three in Smithfield.
One who was only drub'd ith' Fray,
Like Isgrim howling ran a way,
And as he ran was heard to say;
Dear Ioy, thou hast both Killing scap'd and Hanging,
And by my shoul, Ioy, thou'st deserv'd thy Banging.