Fable VIII The Sow and the Peacock
In days of yore, as authors tell,
When beasts and birds could read and spell,
No matter where, in town or city,
There liv’d a Swine exceeding witty;
And, for the beauties of her mind,
Excelling all her bristl’d kind:
But yet, to mortify her pride,
She found at last her failing side.
Philosophy she had good store,
Had ponder’d Seneca all o’er;
Yet all precautions useless prove
Against the pow’r of mighty love.
It happen’d on a sultry day,
Upon her fav’rite couch she lay,—
’Twas a round dunghill soft and warm,
O’ershadow’d by a neighb’ring barn,—
When lo, her winking eyes behold
A creature with a neck of gold,
With painted wings and gorgeous train,
That sparkled like the starry plain:
His neck and breast all brilliant shine
Against the sun. The dazzl’d Swine,
Who never saw the like before,
Began to wonder and adore;
But seeing him so fair and nice,
She left her dunghill in a trice;
And, fond to please, the grunting elf
Began to wash and trim herself;
And from the stinking pool she run
To dry her carcase in the sun;
And rubb’d her sides against a tree:
And now, as clean as hogs can be,
With cautious air and doubtful breast,
The glitt’ring Peacock thus address’d:
“Sir, I, a homely rural Swine,
Can boast of nothing fair nor fine,
No dainties in our troughs appear,
But, as you seem a stranger here,
Be pleas’d to walk into my sty,
A little hut as plain as I.
Pray venture through the humble door;
And tho’ your entertainment’s poor,
With me you shall be sure to find
An open heart and honest mind;
And that’s a dainty seldom found
On cedar floors and city ground.”
Thus far the Sow had preach’d by rule,
She preach’d, alas! but to a fool;
For this same Peacock, you must know,
Had he been man, had been a beau:
And spoke, like them, but mighty little
That to the point could tend a tittle:
And with an air that testify’d
He’d got at least his share of pride,
He thus began: “Why, truly now,
You’re very civil, Mrs Sow:
But I am very clean, d’ye see;
Your sty is not a place for me.
Should I go through that narrow door,
My feathers might be soil’d or tore;
Or scented with unsav’ry fumes:
And what am I without my plumes?”
The much offended Sow replies,
And turns asquint her narrow eyes,
“Sir, you’re incorrigibly vain,
To value thus a shining train;
For when the northern wind shall blow,
And send us hail, and sleet, and snow,
How will you save from such keen weathers,
Your merit—sir, I mean your feathers?
As for myself,—to think that I
Should lead an idiot to my sty,
Or strive to make an oaf my friend,
Makes all my bristles stand on end:
But for the future, when I see
A bird that much resembles thee,
I’ll ever make it as a rule,
The shining case contains a fool.”