Page:The Battle of the Books, and Other Short Pieces.djvu/142

 That, often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was, I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbour wrong; Or ever went to seek my food By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The ass approaching next, confessed, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet, the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin or shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he hath, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the king: Then, for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The swine with contrite heart allowed, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice,