University of Virginia Library

A Squire of Wales, whose Blood ran higher,
Than that of any other Squire,
Hasty, and hot; whose peevish Honour
Reveng'd each Slight was put upon her,
Upon a Mountain's top one day
Expos'd to Sol's meridian Ray;
He fum'd, he rav'd, he curs'd, he swore,
Exhal'd a Sea at ev'ry Pore:
At last, such Insults to evade,
Sought the next Tree's protecting Shade;
Where, as he lay dissolv'd in Sweat,
And wip'd off many a Rivulet,
Off in a pet the Beaver flies,
And flaxen Wigg, Time's best Disguise,
By which, Folks of maturer Ages,
Vie with smooth Beaux, and Ladys Pages:
Tho' 'twas a Secret rarely known,
Ill-natur'd Age had cropt his Crown,
Grub'd all the Covert up, and now
A large smooth Plain extends his Brow.
Thus as he lay with Numskul bare,
And courted the refreshing Air,
New Persecutions still appear,
A noisy Fly offends his Ear.
Alas! what Man of Parts, and Sense,
Could bear such vile Impertinence?
Yet so discourteous is our Fate,
Fools always buz about the Great.
This Insect now, whose active Spight
Teaz'd him with never-ceasing Bite,
With so much Judgment play'd his part,
He had him both in Tierce and Quart:
In vain with open Hands he tries,
To guard his Ears, his Nose, his Eyes;
For now at last familiar grown,
He perch'd upon his Worship's Crown,
With Teeth, and Claws, his Skin he tore,
And stuff'd himself with human Gore.
At last, in Manners to excel,
Untruss'd a point, some Authors tell.
But now what Rhetorick cou'd assuage,
The furious Squire stark mad with Rage?
Impatient at the foul Disgrace,
From Insect of so mean a Race;
And plotting Vengeance on his Foe,
With double Fist he aims a Blow:
The nimble Fly escap'd by flight,
And skip'd from this unequal Fight.
Th' impending Stroke with all its weight
Fell on his own beloved Pate.
Thus much he gain'd, by this advent'rous Deed,
He foul'd his Fingers, and he broke his Head.

MORAL.

Let Senates hence learn to preserve their State,
And scorn the Fool, below their grave Debate,
Who by th' unequal Strife grows popular, and great.
Let him buz on, with senseless Rant defy,
The Wise, the Good; yet still 'tis but a Fly.
With puny Foes the Toil's not worth the Cost,
Where nothing can be gain'd, much may be lost:
Let Cranes, and Pigmies, in Mock-War engage,
A Prey beneath the gen'rous Eagle's Rage.
True honour o'er the Clouds sublimely wings;
Young Ammon scorns to run with less than Kings.