FABLE XXII.

'Tis said, that Jove had once a farm to let, And sent down Mercury, his common crier, To make the most that he could get; Or sell it to the highest buyer. To view the premises the people flocked: And, as 'tis usual in such case, Began to run them down apace; The soil was poor, the farm ill stocked: In short, a barren, miserable place, Scarce worth th' expense to draw a lease. One bolder, tho' not wiser than the rest, Offered to pay in so much rent, Provided he had Jove's consent To guide the weather just as he thought best; Or wet, or dry; or cold, or hot; Whate'er he asked should be his lot; To all which Jove gave a consenting nod. The seasons now obsequious stand, Quick to obey their lord's command, And now the Farmer undertakes the god; Now calls for sunshine, now for rains, Dispels the clouds, the wind restrains; But still confined within his farm alone, He makes a climate all his own; For when he sheds, or when he pours, Refreshing dews, or soaking showers, His neighbours never share a drop; So much the better for their crop; Each glebe a plenteous harvest yields; Whilst our director spoils his fields. Next year, he tries a different way; New moulds the seasons, and directs again; But all in vain: His neighbour's grounds still thrive while his decay. What does he do in this sad plight? For once he acted right: He to the god his fate bemoaned, Asked pardon, and his folly owned. Jove, like a tender master, fond to save, His weakness pityed, and his fault forgave.

He, who presumes the ways of heaven to scan, Is not a wise, nor yet a happy man: In this firm truth securely we may rest,— Whatever Providence ordains is best; Had man the power, he'd work his own undoing; To grant his will would be to cause his ruin.