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.