FABLE
[
19
]
XIX
.
The
Lyon
and
the
Cub
.
How
fond
are
men
of
rule
and
place
,
Who
court
it
from
the
mean
and
base
!
These
cannot
bear
an
equal
nigh
,
But
from
superior
merit
fly
;
They
love
the
cellar's
vulgar
joke
,
And
lose
their
hours
in
ale
and
smoak
;
There
o'er
some
petty
club
preside
,
So
poor
,
so
paultry
is
their
pride
!
Nay
,
ev'n
with
fools
whole
nights
will
sit
,
In
hopes
to
be
supream
in
wit
.
If
these
can
read
,
to
these
I
write
,
To
set
their
worth
in
truest
light
.
A
Lyon-cub
,
of
sordid
mind
,
Avoided
all
the
lyon
kind
;
Fond
of
applause
,
he
sought
the
feasts
Of
vulgar
and
ignoble
beasts
,
With
asses
all
his
time
he
spent
,
Their
club's
perpetual
president
.
He
caught
their
manners
,
looks
and
airs
:
An
ass
in
ev'ry
thing
,
but
ears
!
If
e'er
his
highness
meant
a
joke
,
They
grinn'd
applause
before
he
spoke
;
But
at
each
word
what
shouts
of
praise
!
Good
Gods
!
how
natural
he
brays
!
Elate
with
flatt'ry
and
conceit
,
He
seeks
his
royal
sire's
retreat
;
Forward
,
and
fond
to
show
his
parts
,
His
highness
brays
,
the
Lyon
starts
.
Puppy
,
that
curst
vociferation
Betrays
thy
life
and
conversation
;
Coxcombs
,
an
ever-noisy
race
,
Are
trumpets
of
their
own
disgrace
.
Why
so
severe
,
the
Cub
replys
?
Our
senate
always
held
me
wise
.
How
weak
is
pride
,
returns
the
Sire
,
All
fools
are
vain
,
when
fools
admire
!
But
know
,
what
stupid
asses
prize
,
Lyons
and
noble
beasts
despise
.