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.

[illustration] the laden camel walks under a tree with the fly on his back. In the background the camel looks up at Mercury (or Hermes) in winged sandals and helmet, caduceus in hand, descending from a cloud where Jupiter (or Jove) sits, crowned, trident in hand, next to an eagle.

FAB. XXIV. Of the Camel and the Fly.

THat Emblem of Impertinence, the Fly, Mounted upon a Camel Steeple-high, Because the laden Monster slowly went, Her petulant Humor stirr'd up, did ferment, Who pitch'd upon a Turbant o're a Pack, In a high Chafe thus arrogantly spake:

Why, Bunch-back, creep'st thou in so smooth a Road? Am I so great a Lady? such a Load? This Tiffany Whisk, and Sarc'net Cloke of mine Ne're Navel-gall'd, nor broke a Horses Chine: Haste, thou dull Lump of Flesh, why dost not go? This Morning is Sir Cranion Wedded know, To Madam Lady-Bird, more Fair and Gay Than May her self, and all the Flowers in May; There will be painted Flies of all Degrees, Prime Courtiers, and the King himself of Bees; Gnats, Humbles, Hornets, twenty four his Band, Hybleans Consort ready at Command; Who late Presented Jove a Honey-comb, Sent with Gifts loaden, and great Honors home, His Waxen Realms to strengthen and advance, Above the Power of Change, or fickle Chance:

The Married Pair present their Royal Guest A stately Masque, after a sumptuous Feast; And I my self, whose Name you needs must know, Dame Gadfly, am Invited to the Show: Had I a Switch or Spur, I'd pay your Coat, That thus with calling make so hoarse my Throat.

The Camel hearing from his Fardle come Vexatious Buzzes, and so loud a Hum, Thought that some Spirit Ranted in the Sky; But when he saw there but Summer Fly,

Why Madam Gad? why all this stir? he said; My Master, for your Place you never paid: If I could reach thee with my Train or Teeth, I'd make thee far unfit to Roast, or Seeth; You that so poor and proud are, one small Lash, Would turn thee, Boneless Nothing, to a Hash.

MORAL.

The noise of wrangling Gamesters at their Games, Makes Heavenly Musick to your All-tongu'd Dames: Eccho a Voice without a Body, strange! Let Silent Women 'mongst such Wonders range.