John Gay

Fable

A Milk-white Swan, in Aesop’s time, 
Had got the knack of making rhyme; 
All other birds he did excel; 
Wrote verses, – yes, – and wrote them well: 
Praised was his genius, and his parts – 
All wondered how he reached the arts: 
Except some Geese, in neighbouring brook; 
Yet even they admired his look, 
And grudged each feather in his wing; 
But, envious, hiss’d whene’er he’d sing! 
His sonnets they denounced as satire, 
His lyric pleasantries, ill-nature!

One day these Geese most pertly squall’d, 
“Cygnet!” – for so the Swan was call’d – 
“Cygnet, – why will you thus abuse 
“Our patience with your doggerel muse? 
“Not only you offend our ears, 
“But you assail our characters! 
“Blush, and no longer do amiss.” 
The critics ended with a hiss.

Erect the Cygnet raised his crest, 
And thus the silly Geese address’d: 
“I know not any of your tribe – 
“Why, then, d’ye feel my jest or gibe? 
“Fools ever – (’tis a certain rule) 
“Think they’re the butts of ridicule; 
“As if they so important were, 
“No other theme the muse could cheer. 
“Begone! you but yourselves expose, 
“When thus your folly you disclose: 
“Know this, and then your gabbling cease – 
“Swans like my verse; but you are – Geese!’