Pamper your Steed with Oats and Beans ,
The Creature guesses strait it means,
That for some Journey you prepare,
And neighs aloud, and snuffs the Air .
Or take your Gun in Hand, and say,
Hy to the Woods ! and cunning Tray
Will wag his Tail , and know your Heart ,
Spite of the Doctrine of Des Carte ,
Who writes, that barking nothing means,
And that all Beasts are mere Machines .
As shrewdly, Friend , did I divine,
When Tom , your Butler , brought the Wine ,
You meant it, to inrich my Brain ,
And take it out in Rhimes again.
Unless to mend her Milk , who leads
His Straw-fed Cow to flow'ry Meads,
Or fattens her, when old, with Clover ,
But hopes, to sell her to the Drover ?
Nought in this Age is done for Nought:
E'en Votes , like Verses , now are bought;
Honour , and Freedom may be fold,
And Ilia be had for Gold .
'Tis just, good Friend , you have your Will:
The Chymist sure may use his Still .
Evaporated , not refin'd ,
Thro' the Alembic of the Mind ,
Behold your Drink ! — — nay, never curse!
My own dull Port had turn'd out worse.