Fable XIX. the Charioteer

A CHARIOTEER; not one of those Who gallop'd in OLYMPIC shows; But one, who on NEWMARKET'S sod, Was worship'd, as a Demi-God; Who, out of any thing, could hatch The praise, or profit of a MATCH; Inspir'd with most heroic glee, High mounted on a VIS A VIS, Which to a second he could drive, Or turn, with any man alive; Was posting on a glowing pace— For Time and he were match'd a race.

His brother CHARIOTEER, the Sun, His daily course had almost run, Impatient for an ev'ning's nap, In gentle THETIS' watry lap; When driving up a steepy hill, Which somewhat check'd impatient will, (As horses, be they e'er so good, Are still no more than flesh and blood) It chanc'd our rattle-pated wit O'ertook an easy jogging cit, Of whom he ask'd, in modish stile, Damn it, old boy, how many mile To such a place, and have I pow'r To reach it—Gee-up—in an hour?

An hour!—old Slow and Sure replies, Tis near the rate a Pigeon flies; And tho' your tits are high bred things, I cannot yet discern their wings; Their gaping mouths, with foam o'erspread, And stretch'd out nostrils glowing red, Their heaving sides, and quiv'ring tails, Inform me that fatigue prevails— May I advise, your speed abate, Or else you'll reach your inn too late; You'll sooner gain—believe me, friend— By slower pace, your journey's end.

The mettled blade, of spirit proud, Disdain'd advice, and laugh'd aloud; Then swore politely, by the Gods, Old Shaver must have ta'en the odds— Exulting thus, whipp'd sharp his cattle— Who sprung, and made the carriage rattle.

Scarce had he gone three hundred yards, Ere adverse fate his course retards; A failing wheel, with crashing noise, The speed of sanguine hope destroys; And on the ground, in full career, Lays low th' astonish'd CHARIOTEER; Who curs'd the chance, in modish phrase, And star'd around with stupid gaze.

The sober CIT came jogging on, And saw dismounted PHAETON; He saw the prostrate ruin lie, On which he cast a leering eye; And thus address'd, with taunting sneer— I did not think to catch you here; Tho' as you drove so very fast, I thought to overtake at last.

Thus you, young Sir, like many more, In Fortune rich, in Reason poor, Drive headlong on, nor ever think How near you are to danger's brink.

If ever you have been at school You might have learn'd this useful rule, For young or old, for grave or gay, Wisely to keep the middle way.

A common Proverb has decreed, The more we haste the worse we speed; Yet some with prudence still at strife Post, neck or nothing, on thro' life.

But soft—farewel—for more delay Will too much check my stinted way; The sun declining loses light— I wish you, luckless friend! good night.