FABLE XII. The Sick Ass.
The Mock-Mourners.
An
Ass fell Sick, and the Report grew rife,
That he, poor Creature, was past Hopes of Life:
The Dogs and Wolves, with forward Zeal, pretend
To bid Adieu to their Departing Friend:
But finding, when they went, the Door was barr'd,
They knock'd, and ask'd how their good Neighbour far'd.
To whom his Son, through a small Chink, reply'd,
Much better, Sirs, than you wou'd wish he did.
The MORAL.
‘Thus many, with dissembl'd Tears and Breath,
‘Seem to lament their Friends approaching Death;
‘Tho' from another Cause they truly grieve,
‘Not that they are to Die, but that they Live.
‘The Son believes the Father does him Wrong,
‘And keeps th' Estate, he fain wou'd have, too long:
‘Or if the Parent do's his Succour need;
‘From the Incumbrance wishes to be free'd.
‘The Wife supposes, were her Husband dead,
‘She might be happy in another's Bed.
‘The Husband, whom his try'd Enjoyments cloy,
‘In a new Wife expects improving Joy.
‘Thus, for some Object hated, or desir'd,
‘We of our Friends, or they of us, are tir'd.
