FABLE XXVII. The Satyr and Traveller:
Or, Hot and Cold with a Breath.
A
Satyr, that in Desart still was bred,
And Humane Converse, and its Vices, fled;
Found in the Wilds a Wretch that lost his Way,
And on the Ground, half-frozen to it, lay.
The gen'rous Savage, pleas'd his Life to save,
Convey'd him to his hospitable Cave;
And there all Means for his Recov'ry try'd,
That Pity could suggest, or Care provide.
While on the Fire the Host was piling Wood,
The Inmate blowing his numb'd Fingers stood:
The Satyr saw him on that Work intent,
And ask'd what he, by such Sufflation, meant.
The Traveller, to answer his Demands,
Reply'd, He us'd his Breath to warm his Hands.
This pass'd, 'till Breakfast on the Board was plac'd,
Which the kind Landlord pray'd his Guest to taste.
He soon fell to, but found the Broth too hot;
(Too large a Fire did over-heat the Pot)
His scalded Lips wou'd let him sup no more,
'Till he had blown it, as his Hands before.
The wondring Satyr, who observ'd him puff,
Ask'd if the Porridge was not warm enough.
He answer'd; Sir, It is too warm, I find,
And now my Breath to cool it is design'd.
Surpriz'd thereat, the Sylvan strait took Fire,
And said, Base Villain, from my Cave retire:
This honest Cell shall no such Monster hold,
Whose false ambiguous Breath blows Hot and Cold.
The MORAL.
‘The Wretch, whose Double-Tongue moves diff'rent Ways,
‘And what it now Commends, can soon Dispraise;
‘Excluded from all Honest Men shou'd live,
‘That he may none, but like himself, deceive:
‘For such a Proteus, one so unsincere,
‘Is truly no-where, while he's ev'ry-where:
‘Whom he, while present, sooths with oily Words,
‘He wounds, when absent, more than pointed Swords.
‘Flee the Infection of such pois'nous Breath,
‘That either Stings, or Tickles you to Death:
‘For no Desert can fix, no Ties can bind
‘A Double-Tongue, mov'd by a Double-Mind.
