The Fable of the Pot and Kettle,
as it was told by Collonel Titus the Night before he Kiss'd the Kings Hand.
As down the Torrent of an angry Flood,
An Earthen Pot, and a Brass Kettle flow'd;
The heavy Caldron, sinking and distress'd
By his own Weight, and the fierce VVaves oppress'd,
Slily bespoke the lighter Vessels Aid;
And to the Earthen Pitcher friendly said,
Come, Brother, why should we divided lose
The strength of Union, and our selves expose
To the Insults of this poor paltry Stream,
Which with united Forces we can stem?
Tho different heretofore have been our Parts,
The Common Danger reconciles our Hearts;
Here, lend me thy kind Arm to break the Flood.
The Pitcher this New Friendship understood,
And made this Answer; Tho I wish for Ease
And Safety, this Alliance does not please;
Such different Natures never will agree,
Your Constitution is too rough for me;
If by the Waves I against you am tost,
Or you to me, I equally am lost;
And fear more Mischief from your hard-end-side,
Than from the Shores, the Billows, or the Tide:
I calmer Days and ebbing Waves attend,
Rather than buoy you up, and serve your end,
To perish by the Rigor of my Friend.
The Moral.
Learn
hence (ye Whigs) and act no more like Fools,
Nor trust their Friendship who wou'd make you Tools;
While empty Praises and smooth Flatt'rys serve;
Pay with feign'd Thanks, what their feign'd smiles deserve:
But let not the Alliance farther pass,
For know that you are Clay, and they are Brass.
