Sometimes they shew their Head above the Brim,
And on the glassy Surface spread to swim;
Often upon the Bank their Station take,
Then spring, and leap into the cooly Lake.
Still, void of Shame, they lead a clam'rous Life,
And, croaking, still scold on in endless Strife;
Compell'd to live beneath the liquid Stream,
Where still they quarrel, and attempt to skream.
Now, from their bloated Throat, their Voice puts on
Imperfect Murmurs in a hoarser Tone;
Their noisy Jaws, with Bawling now grown wide,
An ugly Sight! extend on either Side:
Their motly Back, streak'd with a List of Green,
Joyn'd to their Head, without a Neck is seen;
And, with a Belly broad and white, they look
Meer Frogs, and still frequent the muddy Brook.
The Fate of Marsyas.
Scarce had the Man this famous Story told,
Of Vengeance on the Lycians shown of old,
When strait Another pictures to their View
The Satyr's Fate, whom angry Phœbus slew;
Who, rais'd with high Conceit, and puff'd with Pride,
At his own Pipe the skilful God defy'd.
Why do you tear me from my self he cries?
Ah cruel! must my Skin be made the Prize?
This for a silly Pipe? he roaring said,
Mean while the Skin from off his Limbs was flay'd.
All bare, and raw, one large continu'd Wound,
With Streams of Blood his Body bath'd the Ground.
The blueish Veins their trembling Pulse disclos'd,
The stringy Nerves lay naked, and expos'd;
His Guts appeared, distinctly each express'd,
With ev'ry shining Fibre of his Breast.
