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. XXIX. Of the Wind and an Earthen Vessel.

TO a grand Bottle neiling in the Sun, Thus Boreas in huffing Terms begun: What art thou, bullie Monster? thou that hast Such a prodigious Hogen Mogen Waste! As if design'd to empty brimming Quarts, And when Cork'd up, a Bundle be of — Great King of Belly-Gods, I shake to think What thou wilt be, fill'd up with Barmie Drink! What Face is that which on thy Stomach seems To dare the Sun midst all his glaring Beams? Art thou Long-Parliament without a Head? And that th' old Speaker on thy Girdle-stead? Must in that Womb a House of Commons sit? Frothing and fuming, there their Venom spit? Which open'd, bouncing Votes asperse the Sky, King, Lords bespattering, and whoe're stand by. When Copper reign'd, Malt-worms the Helm did steer, And Nations Rul'd with cut-throat stinging Geer; What from so base a Vessel can we hope Must firment? giddy and mad-headed Tope.

[illustration] Boreas, the north wind, blows on a pitcher, shattering it, as it dries on a bench. The potter, running from his workshop, loses his hat. In the foreground, more vessels are drying on a bench.

Then spake the Jugg; Know, Fool, I am not built For Dagger-ale, and Commoners, a Tilt; Which mild at first, turn Vinegar grown old, Too sharp for Peers, and with their King too bold.

A Merry Boy, the Merriest of the Three, Bespoke, my Predecessor failing, me: Though China Ware, so stands our brittle Fate, That we come broken home, early or late; I must supply his Major-Generals Place, Who after Treatments, and a pittanc'd Grace, All took away, Women, weak Vessels, gone, Cries, Battel bid, those that remain fall on; Bottles forlorn, all French, first sury stands Bravely a while; Short Work make many Hands: Soon routed comes the Main, a stronger Dosse, Surrounding me, my Guard Long-beardle Grosse:

Here Cavaliers true Valor shew indeed, I and my Adamantine Squadrons bleed; Me to a Supernaculum they drain, Then triumph o're the Numbers of the Slain.

But who art thou that makst with me so bold? I hear a Voyce, and feel back-biting Cold; Though in the Sun my Face and Belly bake, Thou makst my Neck and tender Shoulders ake: Yet thou no Sinews, Muscles hast thou none, But vapour'st onely in a Hect'ring Tone; I, th' early Product of this single Day, Have Substance, and a Body, though of Clay; If thou dar'st cope, here I shall stand thy shock, As Waves disperse thee beating gainst a Rock;

Thy muster'd Attoms I'll so disunite, In routed Eddies they themselves shall fight.

When Boreas angry, thus began to huff; Know Dust, know empty Pride, and brittle Stuff, I am a King, with me my fourteen Sons, All Princes, Govern Artick Regions; Seven Eurus Race, seven Zephyres. Daughters Wed, I onely cold lie in a Single Bed, Residing much in Caledonian Coasts Espous'd to Winter, and eternal Frosts:

Great Power I o're those barren Confines vaunt; Invincible Necessity and Want, Joyn'd with my starving Blasts, first sign'd th' Intreague Of their so late dire Covenanting League; Thence march'd we on, with Sword, and Book, & Gun, I Charg'd the South with Snow, with Clouds the Sun, Till Southern Yeomen, holp by Northern Lowns, Trampled on Scutcheons, Crosiers, and Crowns, And topsie-turvie turn'd, in quest of Spoils, Three famous Kingdoms, and two fertile Isles; But thee I for thy sawciness will tear, That such Affronters may of Kings beware.

This said, the angry Prince, lest Breath should fail, Charg'd with Small shot, a Shower of battering Hail, And the o'reweening Vessel at the first In thousand Shards and useless Splinters burst; Pots, Pans, and Pipkins no small Sufferers were, Company their Crime, and onely being there: The Potter wondring at the sudden Clap, Lost in the hurley-burley Storm, his Cap.

Recovering Breath, thus Conquering Boreas said, Conceited Fools such Objects should be made.

MORAL.

Princes should not, till they are Setled in Kingdoms regain'd, a Forein War begin: Great is the Work old Ruins to Repair, And fix 'gainst sudden Gusts their Tottering Chair.