_The Belly is the Government, From whence the Nourishment is sent, Of wholesome Laws for mutual Peace, For Plenty, Liberty, and Ease, To all the Body Politick, Which where it fails the Nation's sick. The Members are the discontent_ Pleibeians; _that are ignorant, How necessary for the State It is, that Princes should be great: Which, if their Pomp and Pow'r were less, Could not preserve our Happiness. The Vulgar think all Courts to be But Seats of Sloth and Luxury; Themselves, but Slaves compell'd to bear The Taxes, and the Toils of War; But in this Fable they may see The dismal Fruits of Mutiny; Whilst Subjects, that assist the Crown, But labour to maintain their own._
An honest Countryman had got Behind his House a pretty Spot, Of Garden Ground, with all what might Contribute to the Taste and Sight, The Rose and Lilly, which have been Still kept to compliment the Skin, Poppies renown'd for giving ease, With Roman Lettice, Endive, Pease, And Beans, which Nat'ralists do reckon To be so ominous to Bacon. The Beds were dung'd, the Walks well swept, And every thing was nicely kept. Only a Hare wou'd now and then Spite of the Master and the Men Make raking work for half a day, Then fill her Gut and scow'r away. In vain they beat and search the Ground, The cunning Jilt can ne'er be found, The Master once in angry Mood } Starts up and swears by all that's good, } He'd be revenged, that he would. } Runs to a Country Knight his Neighbour, And there complains how all his labour Was spoil'd by one confounded Hare, Which though the'd watch'd her every where He nor his People ne'er could catch, And of a certain was a Witch. His Worship smiles and promises To rid him of the Sawcy Puss. At break of Day _Jack_ winds his Horn, The Beagles scamper thro' the Corn; Deep mouth'd Curs set up a Cry, And make a cursed Symphony. Now stir you Rogues; the Knight is come With _Robin_, _Lightfoot_, _Dick_ and _Tom_. The House is full of Dogs and Boys, And ev'ry where's a horrid Noise, Well, Landlord, Come, What shall we do? Must w' eat a Bit before we go? What have you got? Now all's fetch'd out, The Victuals rak'd, and tore about. One pairs the Loaf, another Groom } Draws Beer, as if he was at home, } And spils it half about the Room. } What Horseman's yonder at the Door? Why, Faith, there's half a dozen more: They're Gentlemen, that live at Court, Come down the Country for some Sport; Some old Acquaintance of the Knight, Who whips from Table, bids 'em light. They ask no Questions but sit down, Fall too as if it was their own. One finishes the Potted Salmon, Then swears, because he had no Lemon. Good Lord, how sharp the Rogues are set! It puts my Landlord in a Sweat. His Daughter comes with fresh Supplies Of Collard Beef, and Apple-pies. His Worship falls aboard of her; The modest Creature quakes for fear. When do we marry Mistress _Ann_? Who is to be the happy Man? He takes her Hand, and chucks her Chin, Stares in her Face, commends her Skin, Removes her Linnen, shews her Neck; There's Milk, and Blood, Gad take me _Jack_. She blushes, and he vows she is A pretty Girl, then takes a Kiss; She don't consent, nor dares deny, Defends herself respectfully; And now the Knight would let her go; } Another Rake cries, Damme no: } I'll have a Kiss as well as you. } He hugs her close, then calls her Dear, And whispers bawdy in her Ear. My charming Rogue, I would not hurt ye. She answers not, but drops a Courtsie. He's rude, and she's asham'd to squeak; Her Father sees it, dares not speak; But patiently enduring all, Stands like a Statue in the Hall. Now for the Garden and the Hare, The Dogs get in, and scrape and tear, The Horsemen follow, leap the Rails; Down goes the Quick-set-hedge, and Pales. The Huntsman hollows, runs and pushes, All goes to Rack, the Borders, Bushes. And now my Landlord cries amain, You've ruin'd me; but all in vain. The Cabbages are kick'd about, And Flowers with Roots and all pull'd out. The Beds are levell'd with the Ground, At last poor trembling Puss is found Hid underneath a Collyflower. The Prey is took, away they scower, And leave our Countryman to think On all his Loss of Meat and Drink: What havock's made in ev'ry place, His Daughter wrong'd before his Face. Small was the Mischief of the Hare To ravenous Hunters to compare. He wrings his Hands, and all in Tears Repents his foolish rashness, swears, He'll ne'er call help again in haste, Since Hounds and Horses made more waste, In half an hour, than all the Hares Of th' Country could in Seven Years.