178 THE POEMS OF ANNE �May be my Ruin and Betrayer: �A Superiority you boast, �And dress the Meat, I but the Toast: �Than mine your Constitution's stronger �And in Fatigues can hold out longer; �And shou'd one Bang from you be taken, �I into Nothing shou'd be shaken. �A d'autre cry'd the Pot in scorn, �Dost think, there's such a Villain born, 40 �That, when he proffers Aid and Shelter, �Will rudely fall to Helter-Skelter ? �No more, but follow to the Road, �Where Each now drags his pond'rous Load, �And up the Hill were almost clamber'd, �When (may it ever be remember'd!) �Down rolls the Jugg, and after rattles �The most perfidious of all Kettles; �At every Molehill gives a Jump, �Nor rests, till by obdurate Thump, 50 �The Pot of Stone, to shivers broken, �Sends each misguided Fool a Token: �To show them, by this fatal Test, �That Equal Company is best, �Where none Oppress, nor are Opprest. �THE OWL DESCRIBING HER YOUNG ONES �Why was that baleful Creature made, �Which seeks our Quiet to invade, �And screams ill Omens through the Shade? �'Twas, sure, for every Mortals good, When, by wrong painting of her Brood, She doom'd them for the Eagle's Food: ��� �
