That instinct is a furer guide,
Than reafon-boasting mortal's pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus eft anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honeft brute,
At law his neighbour profecute,
Bring action for affault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court:
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend, a foe:
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.
Fraught with invective, they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-nofter-Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing mafters,
No pick-pockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honeft quadrupeds;
No fingle brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others throat for pay.
Of beafts, it is confefs'd the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling paffion: