On Mr. Pulteney's Being Put Out of the Council. 1731

SIR ROBERT, wearied by Will Pulteney's teasings,Who interrupted him in all his leasings,Resolved that Will and he should meet no more,Full in his face Bob shuts the council door;Nor lets him sit as justice on the bench,To punish thieves, or lash a suburb wench.Yet still St. Stephen's chapel open liesFor Will to enter--What shall I advise?Ev'n quit the house, for thou too long hast sat in't,Produce at last thy dormant ducal patent;There near thy master's throne in shelter placed,Let Will, unheard by thee, his thunder waste;Yet still I fear your work is done but half,For while he keeps his pen you are not safe.Hear an old fable, and a dull one too;It bears a moral when applied to you.

A hare had long escaped pursuing hounds,By often shifting into distant grounds;Till, finding all his artifices vain,To save his life he leap'd into the main.But there, alas! he could no safety find,A pack of dogfish had him in the wind.He scours away; and, to avoid the foe,Descends for shelter to the shades below:There Cerberus lay watching in his den,(He had not seen a hare the lord knows when.)Out bounced the mastiff of the triple head;Away the hare with double swiftness fled;Hunted from earth, and sea, and hell, he flies(Fear lent him wings) for safety to the skies.How was the fearful animal distrest!Behold a foe more fierce than all the rest:Sirius, the swiftest of the heavenly pack,Fail'd but an inch to seize him by the back.He fled to earth, but first it cost him dear;He left his scut behind, and half an ear.Thus was the hare pursued, though free from guilt;Then, honest Robin, of thy corpse beware;Thou art not half so nimble as a hare:Too ponderous is thy bulk to mount the sky;Nor can you go to Hell before you die.So keen thy hunters, and thy scent so strong,Thy turns and doublings cannot save thee long.

AN inundation, says the fable,Overflow'd a farmer's barn and stable;Whole ricks of hay and stacks of cornWere down the sudden current borne;While things of heterogeneous kindTogether float with tide and wind.The generous wheat forgot its pride,And sail'd with litter side by side;Uniting all, to show their amity,As in a general calamity.A ball of new-dropp'd horse's dung,Mingling with apples in the throng,Said to the pippin plump and prim,"See, brother, how we apples swim."Thus Lamb, renown'd for cutting corns,An offer'd fee from Radcliff scorns,"Not for the world--we doctors, brother,Must take no fees of one another."Thus to a dean some curate slovenSubscribes, "Dear sir, your brother loving."Thus all the footmen, shoeboys, porters,About St. James's, cry, "We courtiers."Thus Horace in the house will prate,"Sir, we, the ministers of state."Thus at the bar the booby Bettesworth,Though half a crown o'erpays his sweat's worth;Who knows in law nor text nor margent,Calls Singleton his brother sergeant.And thus fanatic saints, though neither inDoctrine nor discipline our brethren,Are brother Protestants and Christians,As much as Hebrews and Philistines:But in no other sense, than natureHas made a rat our fellow-creature.Lice from your body suck their food;But is a louse your flesh and blood?Though born of human filth and sweat, itAs well may say man did beget it.And maggots in your nose and chinAs well may claim you for their kin.Yet critics may object, why not?Since lice are brethren to a Scot:Which made our swarm of sects determineEmployments for their brother vermin.But be they English, Irish, Scottish,What Protestant can be so sottish,While o'er the church these clouds are gatheringTo call a swarm of lice his brethren?As Moses, by divine advice,In Egypt turn'd the dust to lice;And as our sects, by all descriptions,Have hearts more harden'd than EgyptiansAs from the trodden dust they spring,And, turn'd to lice, infest the king:For pity's sake, it would be just,A rod should turn them back to dust.Let folks in high or holy stationsBe proud of owning such relations;Let courtiers hug them in their bosom,As if they were afraid to lose 'em:While I, with humble Job, had ratherSay to corruption--"Thou'rt my father."For he that has so little witTo nourish vermin, may be bit.