March 1, 1757

The fame of Edward Moore, (March 22, 1712 to March 1, 1757 ), an English writer of drama and poetry -- has faded, for everyone except experts in 18th century theater. And yet I commend the following poem, quoted in its entirety below. It is clear, and funny, and not at all about pets. Here is Edward Moore's

THE FARMER, THE SPANIEL, AND THE CAT,

Why knits my dear her angry brow ?
What rude offence alarms you now ?
I said that Delia's fair 'tis true,
But did I say she equal'd you ?

Can't I another's face commend,
Or to her virtues be a friend,
But instantly your forehead lours,
As if her merit lessen'd yours ?
From female envy never free,
All must be blind, because you see.

Survey the gardens, fields, and bowers,
The buds, the blossoms, and the flowers,
Then tell me where the woodbine grows,
That vies in sweetness with the rose?
Or where the lily's snowy white
That throws such beauties on the sight?

Yet folly is it to declare
That these are neither sweet nor fair.
The crystal shines with fainter rays
Before the diamond's brighter blaze,
And fops will say the diamond dies
Before the lustre of your eyes ;
But I, who deal in truth, deny
That neither shine when you are by.

When zephyrs o'er the blossoms stray,
And sweets along the air convey,
Shan't I the fragrant breeze inhale,
Because you breathe a sweeter gale ?

Sweet are the flowers that deck the field,
Sweet is the smell the blossoms yield,
Sweet is the summer gale that blows,
And sweet, though sweeter you, the rose.

Shall envy then torment your breast,
If you are lovelier than the rest ?
For while I give to each her due,
By praising them I flatter you,
And praising most, I still declare
You fairest where the rest are fair.

As at his board a farmer sat;
Replenish'd by his homely treat,
His favourite Spaniel near him stood,
And with his master shared the food;
The crackling bones his jaws devour'd,
His lapping tongue the trenchers scour'd,
Till sated, now supine he lay,
And snored the rising fumes away.

The hungry Cat in turn drew near,
And humbly craved a servant's share;
Her modest worth the Master knew,
And straight the fattening morsel threw;
Enraged the snarling Cur awoke,
And thus with spiteful envy spoke—

' They only claim a right to eat
Who earn by services their meat;
Me zeal and industry inflame
To scour the fields and spring the game,
Or plunging in the wintry wave
For man the wounded bird to save.

With watchful diligence I keep
From prowling wolves his fleecy sheep,
At home his midnight hours secure,
And drive the robber from the door:
For this his breast with kindness glows,
For this his hand the food bestows;

And shall thy indolence impart
A warmer friendship to his heart,
That thus he robs me of my due,
To pamper such vile things as you ?'

' I own (with meekness Puss replied)
Superior merit on your side;
Nor does my breast with envy swell
To find it recompensed so well;
Yet I, in what my nature can,
Contribute to the good of man.

Whose claws destroy the pilfering mouse ?
Who drives the vermin from the house ?
Or, watchful for the labouring swain,
From lurking rats secures the grain ?
From hence if he rewards bestow,
Why should your heart with gall o'erflow ?

Why pine my happiness to see,
Since there's enough for you and me ?'
Thy words are just;' the Farmer cried,
And spurn'd the snarler from his side.


Oh wonderful 18th century, when argument could unwind in a leisurely manner. And when clarity and subtlety did not preclude an conclusive snap in a final line.