The SOW and the PEACOCK

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.