Æsopicks: or, A second collection of fables, paraphras'd in verse, adorn'd with sculpture, and illustrated with annotations. / By John Ogilby, esq; his Majesty's cosmographer, geographick printer, and master of revels in the kingdom of Ireland.

FAB. XXIII. 3. Of the same Wolf and Fox.

THis Closet-secret, the whole Juncto two, Early next morning sly Sir Reynard knew, His Pensioners, Intelligencers there, Pick'd out each Whisper from the King's own Ear; Such as their Prince and Country, such as would Their Wives! their Wives & Children sell for Gold: Who Publick Spirits count both weak and base; Let Private Interest, Self-concern take place: What care they if whole Kingdoms sink or swim, So they buoy up, and float above the brim.

Startled at first, a consternating Cold Agu'd his Joynts, attaqu'd Lifes warmer Hold: Soon as his better Spirits clear'd the Damp, And Sparks of Courage lightned Reasons Lamp, Then Reynard spake, Be circumspect and quick, Mischief prevent, and shew him Trick for Trick: To Cure the Lion, must I be uncas'd? You may be met with, Wolf, for all your haste.

This said, he all bemires his Back and Head, In Carrion rolls, where Rooks and Ravens fed: So to Court goes, so Ann'd with this Disguise And noysom Stench, to play his Master-Prize:

And soon he came where the Old Lion sate; Bemelanchollied and Disconsolate.

But when he saw Sir Reynard there, he said; Cousin! draw near, to see you I am glad; You must for me a Business undertake, Concerns my Life, and Crown! why draw'st thou back? Come near, and me your King Advice afford, The Work's too knotty for our Council Board: They only follow Sport, Eat, Drink, and Droll, Scarce one a Learned or a Knowing Soul.

Then Reynard said, Ah my most Gracious Liege! I thus bespatter'd with foul Dung and Siege, Sir, ought not in your Royal Presence stand, But that I bring you from a Forein Land, Fair Overtures of Health, nay certain Cure, For lingring Sickness worse than Calenture; What Comfort boasts the Emperor of the World? Whose Cheeks bear pale Distempers, Flags unfurl'd When Hypochondriack Fumes, more strong than Spell Or Pulpits, Conjure up ten thousand Hells, Legions of Devils, and as many Saints, Breathing Rebellion, Oaths, and Covenants; Tortur'd with Fancy worse than his Disease, He lives or dies, as Court Physicians please.

Observing, Sir, that all in Physick dealt, Oftner our Purses than our Pulses felt; And whensoever double Fees not drop, They leave their Patient then in little hope; Galenick this, Chymistrie that pretends, Their chiefest Learning Greek and Latin ends:

So I at last, a great Magician found, That only dealt with Spirits under Ground; By me importun'd much, he call'd from Rest, Old Aesop, that renown'd Mythologist; Who first to Business found the nearest way, What in long Sermons Orators could say Of State-Affairs, of Moral, or Divine, His Cock and Bull contracts all in a Line. Whose pale Shade told me, vain were Medicines all, You might, perhaps, linger a Spring and Fall; But you your Course must finish e'r the Sun Could through th' Ecliptick annual Periods run.

I grieving much, straight made this sad Reply; Ah! must my dear and Royal Master die? When thus he spake in few and pithy words, One only Medicine the whole World affords, Whose Soveraign Power can o'r his Fits prevail; And that's a Wolf, a Wolf without a Tail; Whose brisly Skin must gird him Back and Side, This in seven days will cure, if well apply'd.

This said, the Vision fled the dazling Light, Since when I neither rested Day, nor Night, To bring from Shadows, and the Gates of Hell, What us must Happy make, and You, Sir, Well. My Haste and your Necessity, hath made Me venture in your Presence, thus bewray'd.

Who's there? the King said: On your Lives not fail, But fetch me straight a Wolf without a Tail.

When one reply'd, Isgrim late come to Court, A Rudder wants, or else 'tis wondrous short:

To hide his Wants, thus he himself hath drest, His Sheep-skin Cloke turn'd to a Coat and Vest.

Ha! said the Monarch; Bid him hither straight: No sooner enter'd, but he met his Fate. The Lion throws him Back upon the Floor, And off his Skin, and out his Bowels tore.

No sooner Reynard saw thus Isgrim stripp'd, But to Fox-hall the sly Insulter slipp'd.

MORAL.

Not he who First, but Last, the King's Ear gets, At subtle Plots and Counterminings beats: Yet they who Foremost Charge, cry Traytor First, Play a Fore-game, and seldom get the worst.