University of Virginia Library

You say 'tis vain in verse or prose
To tell what ev'ry body knows,
And stretch invention to express
Plain truths which all men will confess:
Go on the argument to mend,
Prove that to know is to attend,
And that we ever keep in sight
What reason tells us once is right;
Till this is done you must excuse
The zeal and freedom of my Muse
In hinting to the human-kind,
What few deny but fewer mind:
There is a folly which we blame,
'Tis strange that it should want a name,
For sure no other finds a place
So often in the human race,
I mean the tendency to spy
Our neighbour's faults with sharpen'd eye,
And make his lightest failings known,
Without attending to our own.
The Prude in daily use to vex
With groundless censure half the sex,
Of rigid virtue, honour nice,
And much a foe to every vice,
Tells lies without remorse and shame,
Yet never thinks herself to blame.
A Scriv'ner, tho' afraid to kill,
Yet scruples not to forge a will;
Abhors the Soldier's bloody feats,
While he as freely damns all cheats:
The reason's plain, 'tis not his way
To lie, to cozen and betray.
But tell me if to take by force,
Is not as bad at least, or worse.
The Pimp who owns it as his trade
To poach for letchers, and be paid,
Thinks himself honest in his station,
But rails at rogues that sell the nation:
Nor would he stoop in any case,
And stain his honour for a place.
To mark this error of mankind.
The tale which follows is design'd.

A flight of Rooks one harvest morn
Had stopt upon a field of corn,
Just when a Kite, as authors say,
Was passing on the wing that way:
His honest heart was fill'd with pain,
To see the farmer lose his grain,
So lighting gently on a shock
He thus the foragers bespoke.
“Believe me, Sirs, you're much to blame,
'Tis strange that neither fear nor shame
Can keep you from your usual way
Of stealth, and pilf'ring every day.
No sooner has th' industrious swain
His field turn'd up and sow'd the grain,
But ye come flocking on the wing,
Prepar'd to snatch it ere it spring:
And after all his toil and care
Leave every furrow spoil'd and bare:
If ought escapes your greedy bills,
Which nurs'd by summer grows and fills,
'Tis still your prey: and though ye know
No Rook did ever till or sow,
Ye boldly reap, without regard
To justice, industry's reward,
And use it freely as your own,
Tho' men and cattle shou'd get none.
I never did in any case
Descend to practises so base,
Tho' stung with hunger's sharpest pain
I still have scorn'd to touch a grain,
Even when I had it in my pow'r
To do't with safety every hour:
For, trust me, nought that can be gain'd
Is worth a character unstain'd.”

Thus with a face austerely grave
Harangu'd the hypocrite and knave;
And answering from amidst the flock
A Rook with indignation spoke.

“What has been said is strictly true,
Yet comes not decently from you;
For sure it indicates a mind
From selfish passions more than blind,
To miss your greater crimes, and quote
Our lighter failings thus by rote.
I must confess we wrong the swain,
Too oft by pilf'ring of his grain:
But is our guilt like yours, I pray,
Who rob and murder every day?
No harmless bird can mount the skies
But you attack him as he flies;
And when at eve he lights to rest,
You stoop and snatch him from his nest.
The Husbandman who seems to share
So large a portion of your care,
Say, is he ever off his guard,
While you are hov'ring o'er the yard?
He knows too well your usual tricks,
Your ancient spite to tender chicks,
And that you, like a felon, watch,
For something to surprize and snatch.”

At this rebuke so just, the Kite
Surpriz'd, abash'd, and silenc'd quite,
And prov'd a villain to his face,
Straight soar'd aloft and left the place.