FABLE LXVII. The Sick Kite:
Or, Late Repentance seldom True.
A
Kite, that long by Rapine had been fed,
Was Surfeited with Prey, and took his Bed;
Death now (on which before he rarely thought)
Star'd in his Face, and in his Fancy wrought:
But he who had no mind for Dying yet,
Desir'd his Mother wou'd the Gods intreat;
For, might he Live, he a New Bird wou'd be,
No Dove shou'd shew more Innocence than he.
His wiser Dam reply'd; Alas! I fear
The Gods but little will regard my Pray'r;
Nor to a Wretch be eas'ly reconcil'd,
Whose sacrilegious Claws their Altars spoil'd:
Tho' of your Crimes you now pretend a Sense,
And are all over seeming Penitence;
The Gods, whose Eyes pierce deeper than the Skin,
And, through your Feathers, see your Soul within,
Know you wou'd prove, shou'd they your Health restore,
The same rapacious Kite you were before.
The MORAL.
‘Vainly to Heav'n Men in Distresses flie,
‘Who, in their prosp'rous State, did Heav'n defie.
‘Wou'd you, in Sickness and in Want, be heard?
‘In Health and Plenty, Heav'n alike regard.
‘Small Credit is to late Repentance due,
‘Which scarce our selves can know if false or true;
‘The True, consists in a Regen'rate State,
‘And on a Death-bed seems begun too late:
‘That Time's too short to bring us to the Test
‘How we wou'd Practise what we had Profess'd:
‘For tho', when Sick, we for past Follies mourn,
‘The Bent to Sin may with our Health return.
