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] Mercury (or Hermes), with winged sandals and helmet, and caduceus, returns a hatchet to the carpenter, kneeling beneath a tree. In the background is a Pantheon (or round temple) on a hill, and a group of people outside a smaller building.

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FAB. XLI. Of the Carpenter and Mercury.

THis Artist, who no small Task undertook, No petty Tenements, nor paltry Nook, Nor for some Trees contracted, but whole VVoods, To build a stately Temple for the Gods, A huge Pantheon, where they all must stand That e're were worshipp'd yet in any Land, And empty Nieches left for many more, New Lights might move hereafter to implore. Each where the Groves resound with boystrous strokes, And falls of groaning Pines, and dying Okes; His VVork he plies, so that in Ranks and Files Thick stands a Forest in congested Piles.

This Alteration setled Eagles felt, VVho had in Cedar Courts three Ages dwelt, Supposing the Estate for ever theirs, At least, long Leases for themselves and Heirs: 'Mongst these, he on a special Tree did look, Perinsuled with an incircling Brook; 'Mongst spreading Boughs, that dangled o're the stream, He fancied one would make a fitting Beam, VVhich striding, while he Sprigs and Foliage tops, Busie to clear the VVork, his Hatchet drops

'Mongst troubled VVaters, hard to be regain'd, Deep with a Shower, dark with fermented Sand: Then the Coelestials all he did implore, His Ax, employ'd for them, they would restore.

VVhen Hermes, whom this Artist late had Carv'd, And much for such a Master-piece deserv'd, VVhich in his Shop shew'd like an unlick'd Bear, But an eighth VVonder mounted in the Air, VVith his Caduceus, standing on one Leg, Appearing, said, In a good Hour you beg, You building are the Gods a stately Fane, VVho work for them, they hear, when they complain

VVho thus reply'd; My Ax, whilst here I lopt Boughs for their Service, in the River dropt; Lately new edg'd, and fitted to my Hands, VVhich whilst I want, a Turret tottering stands.

This said, the God descends, and in a Thought Him from deep Streams a Golden Hatchet brought, Asking if that were his; which when he spy'd, That's none of mine, I dropt none such he cry'd; I ne're had any Ax shin'd half so bright; For service mine, more than for shew and sight.

Thence Hermes diving, brings another Bait, Both Helve and Hatchet all of massie Plate. That neither, cries the Artist, that's not mine.

Finding no Fraud to answer his Design, Hermes well-pleas'd, presents him with his own, Dipt thrice in Styx, Stick-free 'gainst Steel and Stone, More worth than thrice its weight in solid Gold, VVhose Edge should never blunt, never grow old.

Whilst he gives thanks, commixt with Vows & Pray'rs, The disappearing God to Heaven repairs.

MORAL.

Artists whose Square a Leather Apron girds, Articles bind not, Promises, nor Words: Their worthy Company small Musters makes, That for their own, would leave a Golden Ax.