FABLE LXVIII. The Crow and Fox:
Or, Credulity abus'd by Flattery.
A
Crow, that had some grateful Carrion found,
Made all the Forest, with her Joy, resound;
Nor cou'd in silence eat her Dainty Fare,
But from a Tree proclaim'd aloud her Chear.
A subtle Fox, that from his neighb'ring Earth,
Perceiv'd the reason of her clam'rous Mirth,
Had a shrew'd Plot upon her envy'd Prize:
And knowing she was fond of Flatteries,
Accosts the Prater thus; Illustrious Dame,
I oft' have heard, there is no Truth in Fame;
And now I am confirm'd, by seeing you,
That Fame's a Lyar, and the Proverb true.
Fame, to the World, reports you black as Night,
Tho' sure, no Morning is so fair or bright;
Your Colour do's the purest Snow excell;
And, if your Voice's Charms are parallel,
There is no Bird on Earth, that ever flew,
But must allow the Preference to you.
Corbè, thus wheedl'd, fancies she can sing
As well as any Nightingale in Spring:
With this Conceit, she strives to raise her Note,
But drops her Prey, as she extends her Throat.
Reynard, with his successful Flatt'ry pleas'd,
Laugh'd at her Folly, and her Booty seiz'd:
While her Credulity she justly blam'd,
Griev'd at her Loss, and of her Pride asham'd.
The MORAL.
‘Thus, Flatt'ry do's Vain-glorious Fools betray
‘To ev'ry Parasite an easie Prey:
‘While Praise, beyond their Merit, they believe,
‘They are fit Tools for Flatt'rers to deceive;
‘Who thus th' Ascendant o'er their Favour get,
‘And pipe the list'ning Boobies to their Net.
‘Keep then, to countermine such dang'rous Arts,
‘A modest Sense of thy applauded Parts:
‘The Man, who of himself ne'er thinks too high,
‘Can all the Pow'r of wheedling Charms defie:
‘In vain the Syrens sing, he shill stands fast,
‘Like Ithacus, leash'd firmly to the Mast.
