Yet such impertinence must be pleasing,
Or Beauty would resent such teazing.
A flap will drive a fly away,
A frown will drive a dog to bay:
So if the insects are persistent
'Twas Beauty that was inconsistent!
And if she does not know herself,
Blame not the persecuting elf.

It chanced upon a summer day
That Boris in her boudoir lay--
She the last work of God's fair creatures,
Contemplated her faultless features.
A wasp assailed her so reclined,
Bred of a persecuting kind.
He now advanced, and now retreated,
Till Beauty's neck and face grew heated;
She smote him with her fan: she said
Wasps were excessively ill bred.
But the wasp answered her: "Alas!
Before you blame me, view your glass.
'Twas beauty caused me to presume;
Those cherry lips, that youthful bloom,
Allured me from the plums and peaches
To Beauty, which the soul o'erreaches."

"Don't hit him, Jenny!" Doris cried:
"The race of wasps is much belied;
I must recant what I have said,--
Wasps are remarkably well bred."

Away Sir Sting fled, and went boasting
Amongst his fellows--Doris toasting;
And as his burgundy he sips,
He showed the sugar on his lips.
Away the greedy host then gathered,
Where they thought dalliance fair was feathered.
They fluttered round her, sipped her tea,
And lived in quarters fair and free;
Nor were they banished, till she found
That wasps had stings and felt the wound.

FABLE IX.

THE BULL AND THE MASTIFF.

Deem you to train your son and heir,
For his preceptor then take care;
To sound his mind your cares employ,
E'er you commit to him your boy.
Once on a time on native plain
A bull enjoyed a native reign.
A mastiff, stranger there, with ire
Beheld the bull, with eyes of fire.
The bovine monarch, on his part,
Spurned up the dust with dauntless heart,
Advised the mastiff to think twice,
And asked--if lust or avarice,
From which, in main, contention springs,
Caused him to break the peace of kings?
The mastiff answered him, 'twas glory--
To emulate the sons of story;
Told him that Caesar was his sire,
And he a prince baptized in fire;
That rifles and the mitrailleur
Had thrown his bosom in a stir.

"Accursed cur!" the bull replied,
"Delighting in the sanguine