Fable XIV. the Cock and Pointer

Courage, which serves a worthy end, The virtuous and the wise commend; Who likewise judge by certain rule, That headlong rashness marks a fool; Making such worth as might adorn The source of perils, pain, and scorn.

A COCK, who oft in bloody fray, Had borne the VICTOR'S prize away; Tho' not without indented scars, Heroic signals of his wars; By frequent conquests grew so vain, That glory turn'd his martial brain; And made the images of fight, Haunt all his wishes, day and night; A feather'd QUIXOTE, fit for battle, With men, with windmills, or with cattle; For if he might his prowess show, He valued not what kind of foe.

One day an honest POINTER went, With humble competence content, To scrape the dunghill for a bone, Which, having hid, he thought his own; The COCK observ'd with jealous eye, Crow'd, clapp'd his wings, and drawing nigh, Declar'd, by all the pow'rs of fate, No thief should plunder his estate.

The DOG, by converse gentle made, Gave smooth reply, tho' not afraid; And said, With diff'rent tastes we're born, I feed on flesh, you relish corn; What variance then should make us jar, I hate, I own, the thoughts of war; And would in social concord rest, With ev'ry kind of bird and beast; Save when my master's net, or gun Requires, in search of game, to run.

The COCK replied, A coward still Can find evasions if he will; Know that my just resentment soon Shall teach thee distance, vile poltroon; No less a Spaniard in thy heart, Than in thy name, and outward part; Thus learn—so saying slapp'd a stroke— You'll find it, reptile, more than joke.

The DOG, unhurt, kept scratching on, And only bade the COCK begone; Who, sure of conquest, struck some blows, Which wounded PONTO'S tender nose; Whose patience lost, a single bite Concluded the unequal fight: Sir CHANTICLEER scream'd out, and dy'd, A Martyr to his foolish pride.