Truth in Fiction Or, Morality in Masquerade. A Collection of Two hundred twenty five Select Fables of Aesop, and other Authors. Done into English Verse. By Edmund Arwaker |
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 | Truth in Fiction |  |
While some industrious Bees had left their Home,
And, scatter'd o'er the spacious Field, did roam;
Where they (in Nature's Chymistry exact)
Might rich Elixir from each Herb extract;
Which thro' their small Alembicks they distill,
And with it their Repositories fill:
A pilf'ring Thief, who his own Wants reliev'd
By others Care, and on their Labour liv'd;
Regardless how they shou'd support their Lives,
Came by, and plunder'd the defenceless Hives.
And, scatter'd o'er the spacious Field, did roam;
Where they (in Nature's Chymistry exact)
Might rich Elixir from each Herb extract;
Which thro' their small Alembicks they distill,
And with it their Repositories fill:
252
By others Care, and on their Labour liv'd;
Regardless how they shou'd support their Lives,
Came by, and plunder'd the defenceless Hives.
Their Owner, who delighted in their Trade,
A Visit to their Lab'ratories made;
And (with Surprize at the Disaster) found
Their Rifled Houses tumbled on the Ground:
While he attempts to rectifie the Harm,
The laden Bees, returning, round him swarm;
They him for the abhorr'd Aggressor take,
And, with their Stings, sharp Retribution make.
He, so attack'd, for a Cessation sues,
And wou'd the jealous Insects disabuse:
On me, he cries, your Fury you mis-spend,
Who wou'd your Stocks from Injuries defend:
You on the Robber, who your Stores destroy'd,
To better Purpose had your Stings employ'd:
Tho' I am wrong'd, he wou'd be justly serv'd,
For his sweet Meat so sour a Sauce deserv'd.
A Visit to their Lab'ratories made;
And (with Surprize at the Disaster) found
Their Rifled Houses tumbled on the Ground:
While he attempts to rectifie the Harm,
The laden Bees, returning, round him swarm;
They him for the abhorr'd Aggressor take,
And, with their Stings, sharp Retribution make.
He, so attack'd, for a Cessation sues,
And wou'd the jealous Insects disabuse:
On me, he cries, your Fury you mis-spend,
Who wou'd your Stocks from Injuries defend:
You on the Robber, who your Stores destroy'd,
To better Purpose had your Stings employ'd:
Tho' I am wrong'd, he wou'd be justly serv'd,
For his sweet Meat so sour a Sauce deserv'd.
| Truth in Fiction | |