 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
FABLE XI. THE SUN AND THE WIND.
The Sun and Wind one day fell out
In matters they discours'd about.
Old Boreas, in a rage,
Call'd the Sun fool, and swore he ly'd,
Spit in his face, his power defy'd,
And dar'd him to engage.
In matters they discours'd about.
Old Boreas, in a rage,
Call'd the Sun fool, and swore he ly'd,
Spit in his face, his power defy'd,
And dar'd him to engage.
Quoth he, “Yon goes a traveller,
With formal cloak and looks demure,
The whiggish signs of grace:
Who fairly off the cloak can force,
From one so stiff, proud, and morose,
Deserves the upper place.”
With formal cloak and looks demure,
The whiggish signs of grace:
Who fairly off the cloak can force,
From one so stiff, proud, and morose,
Deserves the upper place.”
With that the Wind began to rise,
Bluster'd and storm'd it through the skies,
Making a dismal roar:
The non-con wrapp'd his cloak about,
Trudg'd on, resolv'd to weather 't out,
And see the tempest o'er.
Bluster'd and storm'd it through the skies,
Making a dismal roar:
The non-con wrapp'd his cloak about,
Trudg'd on, resolv'd to weather 't out,
And see the tempest o'er.
The storm being spent, with piercing rays,
Full on his shoulders Phœbus plays,
Which soon the zealot felt;
Aside the cumberous cloak was thrown,
Panting and faint, he laid him down,
More decently to melt.
Full on his shoulders Phœbus plays,
Which soon the zealot felt;
Aside the cumberous cloak was thrown,
Panting and faint, he laid him down,
More decently to melt.
The Sun then ask'd his blustering friend,
If farther yet he durst contend,
And try some other way:
But, conscious of so plain a truth,
He put his finger in his mouth,
Without a word to say.
If farther yet he durst contend,
And try some other way:
But, conscious of so plain a truth,
He put his finger in his mouth,
Without a word to say.
THE MORAL.
Your Whigs disgrac'd, like bullies of the town,
Libel and rail, the more they're tumbled down:
Superior merit still prevails at last,
The fury of their feeble storm is past.
Libel and rail, the more they're tumbled down:
Superior merit still prevails at last,
The fury of their feeble storm is past.
92
But when the senate darts its piercing rays,
Faction unbuttons, and rebates its pace:
The hypocritic cloak is tiresome found,
And the faint zealot pants upon the ground.
Faction unbuttons, and rebates its pace:
The hypocritic cloak is tiresome found,
And the faint zealot pants upon the ground.
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |