REFLEXION.
HERE’s a Fiction of an Alarm, and we'll ſuppoſe it to be a Falſe One too; for the Inventer has not Determin'd the Point. Now the Fancy will have more Force and Quickneſs in’t that Way, then T’other; and the Aſſes Reaſoning upon the Caſe, will hold good both Ways alike: Only the Aſſes in the Moral are more Frightful then the Aſſes in the Fable. We ſhall be Taken elſe, is the Song of All Popular Male-Contents, when they deſign a Change of Government: And ſo they Hurry the Mobile Headlong, upon the very Dread of Imaginary Chains and Shackles, into the Slavery they Fear'd: But ſome Aſſes are Wiſer then Others; for the Multitude would Anſwer their Maſters elſe in the One Inſtance, as the Animal here in the Emblem Anſwer'd His, in the Other: , Here was no Scampering away, at a Venture, without Fear, or Wit; No Sollicitous Enquiry whether the News was True or No: But the Mythologiſt has prudently, and for our Inſtruction, Caſt thoſe Two Circumſtances out of the Queſtion, and laid the Streſs of it upon This ſingle Iſſue. As who ſhould ſay; In all Governments there muſt be Burdens to be Born, and People to Bear them: And who ſo Proper to bear Thoſe Burdens, as Thoſe that Providence and Policy have Appointed and Deſign’d: for that Office and Station? So that 'tis all one to the Common People who's Uppermoſt (That is to ſay, upon the Matter of Eaſe and Liberty) for Aſſes muſt be Aſſes ſtill whoever Rides them; And Providence will keep: the World in Order full, whoever Grumbles at it.
Fab. CCLXIII.
A Fox and a Knot of Goſſips.
A Fox that was taking a Walk one Night Croſs a Vilage ſpy'd a Bevy of Jolly, Goſſipping Wenches, making Merry over a Diſh of Pullets. Why Ay, ſays he; Is not this a Brave World now? A Poor Innocent Fox cannot ſo much as Peep into a Hen-Rooſt, though but to Keep Life and Soul together, and what a Bawling do you make on’t preſently with your Dogs, and your Baſtards! And yet You your ſelves can lie Stuffing your Guts here with your Hens, and your Capons, and not a Word of the Pudding. How now Bold-Face, crys an Old Trot. Sirrah, we Eat our Own Hens, I'd have you know; and what you Eat, you Steal.
The
