Fable XXVII. the Cock and Peacock

A PEACOCK which, as oft you've heard, In classic times was JUNO'S bird, Of rich and gaudy plumage proud, Assum'd precedence o'er the croud; And, coxcomb like, not knowing whether True merit lay in heart, or feather; He exercis'd his taunting wit, On whom, and when he thought most fit.

One luckless day, his spirits high, As CHANTICLEER was passing by; An honest bird who never tried, To fawn and flatter empty pride; With insolence of word and look, His haughty, restless mind he broke.

Why how now, GINGER, what's the matter, That you presum'd to make such clatter? You strut, and crow, and clap your wings, 'Till all our master's court-yard rings; Such rude behaviour, such a noise, The pleasure of my life destroys.

I seldom raise my tuneful note, To shame thy most discordant throat, Else all the birds would soon agree, To sing my praise, and banish thee.

Besides, you shamefully neglect To pay my worship due respect— Be prudent then, nor more provoke That rage, which yet has turn'd to joke Thy crimes; or know, thou wilt expose Thy safety to a world of foes. Tho' I alone, beyond dissembling, Can set thy paltry heart a trembling.

He said; and turning with disdain, Display'd his rich embroider'd train; Which shone an emblem of the skies, Adorn'd with ARGUS' hundred eyes.

The COCK, like every bird of sense, Still slow to give, or take offence; For some time heard with patience cool, This gaudy, shallow-pated fool: The censure on his voice and air, He rightly judg'd beneath his care; But touch'd upon the master string Of Courage—Passion straight took wing; His feathers rose, and o'er his head The crimson tinge of rage was spread.

Shall my fair name receive a blot, He cries, from such an empty sot? Shall I, who in the mortal pit, My blood have shed, to thee submit? Whate'er their show, I like not birds, Made merely up of looks and words: Prepare, and stand upon thy guard, I seldom strike, but always hard.

He flew with such a willing mind, At once he smote the PEACOCK blind; Who fell to earth, and prostrate lay, Of pain, and shame, the hapless prey; Which seen, the gen'rous victor cried, Unhappy wretch, I'm satisfied; Thy eyes have paid the forfeit due; Henceforth dwell peace 'twixt me and you; To conquer gratifies the brave, Whose second pleasure is to save; For this I'll prove a tender friend, And sooth the loss I cannot mend: But let thy fate henceforth advise The race of FOPLINGS to be wise;— All, who like thee, in show delight, Most justly merit loss of sight.