The half-reclaimed Fox

RENARD nocturnal visits made,
Stealing in silence o'er the glade,
To poultry walks, and paths that led
To barn doors where the chickens fed,
Eating each time a hen or duck,
According to his choice or luck.
        Like other knaves who meet success,
He soon grew guilty of excess,
Nor stopp'd, till gins and traps were laid,--
A sad embargo on his trade.--
Yet cautiously he now and then,
Lur'd by the chuckling of a hen,--

Who to a distance slyly stray'd
To form a nest, her noise betray'd,--
Triumph'd still more, to make a prey
In the broad open face of day;
Counting the higher danger's charg'd,
The more the pleasure is enlarg'd.
But meals diminish'd--strange to tell--
Seem'd to agree with him as well
As gorging hastily each night
His o'er-charg'd stomach in a fright.
        Another Fox that had been scar'd,
Met him, and ask'd him how he far'd.
        "Far'd?" reply'd Renard, "not amiss:
"But, friend, I have discover'd this,--
"We all are greedy after food,
"And eat much more than does us good;
"Whole nights my eyes I ne'er could close,
"But now I sleep in calm repose,
"Taking quiet what's presented,
"And if little, am contented."

"Then you're informed," the friend reply'd,
"That traps and guns are laid aside;
"The coast has been a long time clear,
"And all that like it may go near."
        "Indeed," cry'd Renard; "what a fool!--
"Why then I need not live by rule;
"No cause to run, except in chace;--
"I'll go and just survey the place."
        So when night came, he rambled there,--
Warn'd not by caution of a snare,--
Thinking to make a good repast,
He had one, but it prov'd his last.
Returning, stumbling o'er a gin,
His fate it was to tumble in,
Where, with groans, he thus lamented:--
"Temperance with thee contented,
"Having once drawn the line, and seen
"The diff'rence wrong and right between,

"The little pleasure could be had
"From actions that are truly bad;
"Why rush on Death, so unprepar'd?
"To make a meal could well been spar'd."

MORAL.

We may by care, ere 'tis too late,
Be the self-guardian of our fate;
By vigilance and wise retreat,
Escape the dangers that we meet:
Shun then temptation, watch the hour
When ills rush forward to devour.

Original fables by a Lady

Printed by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co. London, 1810

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.