FABLE XXXVI.Pythagoras and Countryman.Pythagoras, at daybreak drawnTo meditate on dewy lawn,To breathe the fragrance of the morning,And, like philosophers, all scorningTo think or care where he was bound,Fell on a farm. A hammer's soundArrested then his thoughts and ear:"My man, what are you doing there?"The clown stood on a ladder's rung,And answered him with rudish tongue:"I've caught the villain—this here kiteKept my hens ever in a fright;I've nailed he here to my barn-door,Him shan't steal turkey-pouts no more."And lo! upon the door displayed,The caitiff kite his forfeit paid."Friend," said Pythagoras, "'tis rightTo murder a marauding kite;But, by analogy, that glutton—That man who feasts on beef and mutton—I say,—that by analogy,—The man who eats a chick should die.'Tis insolence of power and mightWhen man, the glutton, kills the kite."The clown, who heard Pythagoras,Waxed in a rage, called him an ass;Said man was lord of all creation."Man," the sage answered,sanssensation,"You murder hawks and kites, lest theyShould rob you of your fatted prey;And that great rogues may hold their state,The petty rascal meets his fate."FABLE XXXVII.Farmer's Wife and Raven."Whyare those tears? Why droops your head?Say is your swain or husband dead?"The farmer's wife said: "You know wellThe salt was spilt,—to me it fell;And then to add loss unto loss,The knife and fork were laid across.On Friday evening, 'tis too true,Bounce in my lap a coffin flew.Some dire misfortune it portends:I tremble for my absent friends.""Dame," said the neighbour, "tremble not:Be all these prodigies forgot;The while, at least, you eat your dinnerBid the foul fiend avaunt—the sinner!And soon as Betty clears the tableFor a dessert, I'll read a fable."Betwixt her panniers rocked, on DobbinA matron rode to market bobbing,Indulging in a trancelike dreamOf money for her eggs and cream;When direful clamour from her broke:'A raven on the left-hand oak!His horrid croak bodes me some ill.'Here Dobbin stumbled; 'twas down-hill,And somehow he with failing legsFell, and down fell the cream and eggs.She, sprawling, said, 'You rascal craven!You—nasty—filthy—dirty—raven!''Goody,' said raven, 'spare your clamour,There nothing here was done by glamour;Get up again and wipe your gown,It was not I who threw you down;For had you laid your market wareOn Dun—the old sure-footed mare—Though all the ravens in the HundredHad croaked till all the Hundred wondered,Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,And you, good woman, saved your eggs.'"FABLE XXXVIII.The Turkey and the Ant.Weblame the mote that dims the eyeOf other men, whose faults we spy;But we ignore the beam that liesWith stronger strain in one's own eyes.A turkey, who grew dull at home,Resolved in the wild woods to roam;Wearied she was of barn-door food,Therefore she chuckled round her brood,And said, "My little ones, now follow;We'll go and dine in yonder hollow."They first upon an ant-hill fell—Myriads of negro-ants, pell-mell—"O gobble, gobble—here's a treat!Emmets are most delicious meat;Spare not, spare not. How blest were we,Could we here live from poulterers free!Accursèd man on turkeys preys,Christmas to us no holy-days;When with the oyster-sauce and chineWe roast that aldermen may dine.They call us 'alderman in chains,'With sausages—the stupid swains!Ah! gluttony is sure the firstOf all the seven sins—the worst!I'd choke mankind, had I the power,From peasant's hut to lordly bower."An ant, who on a neighbouring beechHad climbed the trunk beyond her reach,Thus said to her: "You turkey-hen,What right have you to rail on men?You nor compunction know nor feel,But gobble nations at a meal!"FABLE XXXIX.The Father and Jupiter.A manto Jupiter preferredPrayers for a wife: his prayer was heard.Jove smiled to see the man caressingThe granted prayer and doubtful blessing.Again he troubled Jove with prayers:Fraught with a wife, he wanted heirs:They came, to be annoys or joys—One girl and two big bouncing boys.And, a third time, he prayed his prayerFor grace unto his son and heir—That he, who should his name inherit,Might be replete with worth and merit.Then begged his second might aspire,With strong ambition, martial fire;That Fortune he might break or bend,And on her neck to heights ascend.Last, for the daughter, prayed that gracesMight tend upon her face and paces.Jove granted all and every prayer,For daughter, and cadet, and heir.The heir turned out a thorough miser,And lived as lives the college sizar;He took no joy in show or feat,And starving did not choose to eat.The soldier—he held honours martial,And won the baton of field-marshal;And then, for a more princely elf,They laid the warrior on the shelf.The beauty viewed with high disdainThe lover's hopes—the lover's pain;Age overtook her, undecided,And Cupid left her much derided.The father raised his voice above,Complaining of the gifts to Jove;But Jove replied that weal and woeDepended not on outward show—That ignorant of good or ill,Men still beset the heavenly will:The blest were those of virtuous mind,Who were to Providence resigned.FABLE XL.The Two Monkeys.Thescholar, of his learning vain,Beholds the fop with deep disdain:The fop, with spirit as discerning,Looks down upon the man of learning.The Spanish Don—a solemn strutter—Despises Gallic airs and flutter:Whilst the Gaul ridicules the Don,And John Bull looks with like disdainOn manners both of France and Spain:They hold, indeed, a deed tripartiteTo see each other in a tart light.'Tis thus the bard is scorned by thoseWho only deal in learned prose:Whilst bards of quick imaginationAre hipped by the dull prose oration.Men scoff at apes: apes scoff at them;And all—except themselves—contemn.Two monkeys visited the fair,Like critics, with Parnassian sneer;They forced a way through draggled folk,Laughed at Jack Pudding and his joke,Then bought their tickets for the show,And squatted in the foremost row;Their cut-of-jib was there so stunning,It set the idle rabble funning."Brother," one Pug to other said,"The mob is certainly ill-bred."A sentiment which found no favour,And the retorts were of ill-savour.The clown with entrance stopped the jar—Head over heels—with "Here we are!"The tumblers made their somersets,The vaulters made tremendous jets;The dancer on the rope did wonders,And drew down the applauses—thunders,As Numa once elicitedFrom Jove Elicius, so they did."Behold the imitative crew!"Said Pug: "they copy me and you,And clumsily. I'd like to seeThem jump from forest-tree to tree;I'd like to see them, on a twig,Perform a slip-slap or a rig;And yet it pleasant is to knowThe boobies estimate us so.""Brother!" the other Pug replied,"They do their best—with us their guide;We must allow praise is their due,Whilst they example good pursue;But when I see them take a flight,Or walk, like they walk—bolt upright,Because we sometimes walk on two—I hate the imitative crew!"FABLE XLI.Owl and Farmer.Anowl took, in a barn, a stationAs fittest for deep contemplation;There (like a Turk) upon a beamHe sat, as Turks sit in hareem.So smokers, at the Magpie met,Peruse the 'Post-boy' or 'Gazette;'And thence foretell, in wise and sure hope,The future destinies of Europe.The farmer comes to see his sheaves.The owl his silent soul relieves;"Reason in man is sheer pretence,Would he—were he endowed with sense—Treat owls with scorning? He can praiseThe birds that twitter on the sprays:Linnets, and larks, and nightingales,Yet in the nobler owl he fails.Should I, by daylight, view my reign,Those birds would cluster in my train;Why do they pounce upon the wing,Save that they see and own their king?""Pshaw!" said the farmer: "lump of pride!They only follow to deride;Your scream affrights the evening hour,When nightingales enchant the bower.Why all on earth—man, beast, and fowl—Know you for what you are—an owl.You and your train! 'midst Nature's rules,Fools in derision follow fools!"FABLE XLII.Juggler and Vice.A juggleronce had travelled thoroughEach city, market-town, and borough;You'd think, so far his art transcended,Old Nick upon his fingers tended.Vice heard his name: she read his bill,And sought his booth—defied his skill.The juggler, willing, laid a wager,Not yet by losses rendered sager;He played his tricks of high emprize,—Confounding touch, deluding eyes.Then cards obeyed his will, and goldFrom empty bags in torrents rolled!He showed an ivory egg: and thenHatched and brought forth the mother-hen!Vice then stepped forth, with look sereneEnough to stir a juggler's spleen:She passed a magic looking-glass,Which pleased alike dame, lad, and lass;Whilst she, a senator addressing,Said: "See this bank-note—lo! a blessing—Breathe on it—Presto! hey! 'tis gone!"And on his lips a padlock shone."Hey, presto!" and another puff,It went, and he spoke well enough!She placed twelve bottles on the board,They were with some enchantment stored;"Hey, presto!" and they disappear—A pair of bloody swords were there.She showed a purse unto a thief,His fingers closed on it in brief;"Hey, presto!" and—the treasure fled—He grasped a halter, noosed, instead.Ambition held a courtier's wand,It turned a hatchet in his hand.A box for charities, she drew;"Blow here!" and a churchwarden blew—"Hey, presto, open!" Opened, in her,For gold was a parochial dinner!Vice shook the dice, she smote the board,And filled all pockets from her hoard.A counter, in a miser's hand,Grew twenty guineas at command;She bade a rake to grasp them, fain—They turned a counter back again.The transmutations of a guineaMade every one stare like a ninny;But fair was false, and false was fair,By which Vice cheated eye and ear.The juggler, though with grief at heart,In recognition of her art,Said: "Now and then I cheat the throng,You every day—and all day long!"FABLE XLIII.Council of Horses.A steedwith mutiny inspiredThe stud which grazed the mead, and firedA colt, whose eyes then blazing fire,Stood forth and thus expressed his ire:"How abject is the equine race,Condemned to slavery's disgrace!Consider, friends, the deep reproach—Harnessed to drag the gilded coach,To drag the plough, to trot the road,To groan beneath the pack-horse load!Whom do we serve?—a two-legged man,Of feeble frame, of visage wan.What! must our noble jaws submitTo champ and foam their galling bit?He back and spur me? Let him firstControl the lion—tiger's thirst:I here avow that I disdainHis might, that I reject his reign.He freedom claims, and why not we?The nag that wills it, must be free!"He paused: the intervening pauseWas followed by some horse-applause.An ancient Nestor of the raceAdvanced, with sober solemn pace;With age and long experience wise,He cast around his thoughtful eyes.He said: "I was with strength endued,And knew the tasks of servitude;Now I am old—and now these plainsAnd grateful man, repay my pains.I ofttimes marvelled to think, howHe knew the times to reap and plough;And to his horses gave a shareOf the fair produce of the year.He built the stable, stored the hay,And winnowed oats from day to day.Since every creature is decreedTo aid his brother in his need,We served each other—horse and man—And carried out the Eternal plan,And each performed his part assigned:Then calm your discontented mind."The Nestor spoke—the colt submitted—And, like his ancestry, was bitted.FABLE XLIV.Hound and Huntsman.Seeingyourselves are wise, ye smileOn fools and folly for a while;But water wears the rocks, and senseIs wearied by impertinence.The wind was southerly, the skyProclaimed that a good scent would lie—Forth from the kennel burst the hounds,As schoolboys sally out of bounds.They hailed the huntsman; he by nameGreeted each dog, who thought it fame.See them obey command: when bade,They scattered thro' the copse and glade;They snuffed the scent upon the gale,And sought the remnant of a trail.Ringwood, a pup, on the alert,Was very young and very pert;He opened—from exuberant spirit—But old dogs heard the puppy in it;But when his note of "Full-cry" rose,The huntsman to the puppy goes,—Down falls the lash,—up rose the yelp,And murmured thus the puppy whelp:"Why lash me? Are you malcontentThat I possess superior scent?"The huntsman answered: "Puppy slipsMust be restrained by lash of whips;Puppies our scorn, not envy, raise—For envy is akin to praise.Had not that forward noisy tongueThe patience of your elders wrung,You might have hunted with the pack;But now the whip assails your back:You must be taught to know your ground,And from a puppy grow a hound."FABLE XLV.Rose and Poet.I scornthe man who builds his fameOn ruins of another's name:As prudes, who prudishly declareThey by a sister scandaled are;As scribblers, covetous of praise,By slandering, snatch themselves the bays;Beauties and bards, alike, are proneTo snatch at honours not their own.As Lesbia listens, all the whister,To hear some scandal of a sister.How can soft souls, which sigh for sueings,Rejoice at one another's ruins?As, in the merry month of May,A bard enjoyed the break of day,And quaffed the fragrant scents ascending,He plucked a blossomed rose, transcendingAll blossoms else; it moved his tongueTo rhapsodize, and thus he sung:"Go, rose, and lieOn Chloë's bosom, and be there caressed;For there would I,Like to a turtle-dove, aye flee to nestFrom jealousyAnd carking care, by which I am opprest.There lie—reposeUpon a bosom fragrant and as fair;Nor rival thoseBeauties ethereal you discover there.For wherefore, rose,Should you, as I, be subject to despair?"* * * *"Spare your comparisons—oh! spare—Of me and fragrancy and fair!"A Maiden-blush, which heard him, said,With face unwontedly flushed red."Tell me, for what committed wrongAm I the metaphor of song?I would you could write rhymes without me,Nor in your ecstacies so flout me.In every ditty must we bloom?Can't you find elsewhere some perfume?Oh! does it add to Chloë's sweetnessTo visit and compare my meetness?And, to enhance her face, must mineBe made to wither, peak, and pine?"FABLE XLVI.Cur, Horse, and Shepherd's Dog.Thelad of mediocre spiritBlurs not with modesty his merit.On all exerting wit and tongue,His rattling jokes, at random flung,Bespatter widely friend and foe.Too late the forward boy will knowThat jokes are often paid in kind,Or rankle longer in the mind.A village cur, with treble throat,Thought he owned music's purest note,And on the highway lay, to show itOr to philosopher or poet.Soon as a roadster's trot was heard,He rose, with nose and ears upreared;As he passed by assailed his heels,Nor left him till they reached the fields.But, as it happened once, a pad,Assailed by Master Snarl, like mad,Flung out, and knocked him in the mire;Nor did he stop to care, inquire,If he had hurt him. On his wayPad passed, and puppy bleeding lay.A shepherd's dog, who saw him bleed,Who hated Snarl and all his breed,Said, "This was brought about by prate,Which horses—even horses—hate!"FABLE XLVII.The Court of Death.Onceon a time, in solemn state,Death, in his pomp of terror, sate.Attendant on his gloomy reign,Sadness and Madness, Woe and Pain,His vassal train. With hollow toneThe tyrant muttered from his throne:"We choose a minister to-night;Let him who wills prefer his right,And unto the most worthy handWe will commit the ebon wand."Fever stood forth: "And I appealTo weekly bills to show my zeal.Repelled, repulsed, I persevere;Often quotidian through a year."Gout next appeared to urge his claimFor the racked joints of tortured frame:He, too, besieged the man oppressed,Nor would depart, although suppressed.Then Rheumatics stept forth, and said:"I plague them as they lie in bed."Whilst Palsy said: "I make them stumble;When they get up, I make them tumble."Then quick Consumption, slow Decline,Put in their claims, on counts malign;And Plague preferred his rapid powerTo weed a nation in an hour.At the first pause, the monarch said:"Merit of modesty was bred.Does no physician strive with these?Physicians are content with fees.I say, give Drunkenness the wand;There, give it to his drunken hand.For wary men, as foes, detestYou, Rheumatics—who break their rest—Fever, and Gout, who here contend;But Drunkenness they think their friend,Invite him to their feasts: he sharesAlike their merriments and cares.He for anothermagnumcallsAt weddings, births, and funerals."FABLE XLVIII.Florist and Pig.A florist—wit had run a rig—Had set his fancy on a pig;Which followed master like a dog,And petted was, although a hog.The master thus addressed the swine:"My house and garden both be thine;Feast on potatoes as you please,And riot 'midst the beans and peas;Turnips and carrots, pig, devour,And broccoli and cauliflower;But spare my tulips—my delight,By which I fascinate my sight."But Master Pig, next morning, roamedWhere sweet wort in the coolers foamed.He sucked his fill; then munched some grains,And, whilst inebriated, gainsThe garden for some cooling fruits,And delved his snout for tulip-roots.He did, I tell you, much disaster;So thought, at any rate, his master:"My sole, my only, charge forgot,You drunken and ungrateful sot!""Drunken, yourself!" said Piggy-wiggy;"I ate the roots, not flowers, you priggy!"The florist hit the pig a peg,And piggy turned and tore his leg."Fool that I was," the florist said,"To let that hog come near my bed!Who cherishes a brutal mate,Will mourn the folly, soon or late."FABLE XLIX.Man and Flea.Nothing, methinks, is to be seenOn earth that does not overween.Doth not the hawk, from high, surveyThe fowls as destined for his prey?And do not Cæsars, and such things,Deem men were born to slave for kings?The crab, amidst the golden sandsOf Tagus, or on pearl-strewn strands,Or in the coral-grove marine,Thinks hers each gem of ray serene.The snail, 'midst bordering pinks and roses,Where zephyrs fly and love reposes,Where Laura's cheek vies with the peaches,When Corydon one glance beseeches,—The snail regards both fruit and flower,And thanks God for the granted bower.And man, who, standing on some bluff,Regards the world with soul as tough,—The sun, the moon, the starry sphere,The harvests of the circling year,The mighty ocean, meadows trim,And deems they all are made for him."How infinite," he says, "am I!How wondrous in capacity!Over creation to hold reign,The lord of pleasure and of pain——""Hold hard, my hearty!" said a flea,Perched on his neck, beneath his lee."I do not brag that all creationIs subject to the Flea-ite nation.I know that parasitic races,The Ticks and Lucies have their places;But the imperial race of FleaIs all surpassing—look at me.My concentrated vigour, grant,Then look at yon huge elephant;Look at my leap, at my proboscis,Then go and learn, 'ut tu te noscis,'That man was made with skin to bleed,That families of fleas may feed."FABLE L.Hare and Many Friends.Friendship, as love, is but a name,Save in a concentrated flame;And thus, in friendships, who dependOn more than one, find not one friend.A hare who, in a civil way,Was not dissimilar toGay,Was well known never to offend,And every creature was her friend.As was her wont, at early dawn,She issued to the dewy lawn;When, from the wood and empty lair,The cry of hounds fell on her ear.She started at the frightful sounds,And doubled to mislead the hounds;Till, fainting with her beating heart,She saw the horse, who fed apart."My friend, the hounds are on my track;Oh, let me refuge on your back!"The horse responded: "Honest Puss,It grieves me much to see you thus.Be comforted—relief is near;Behold, the bull is in the rear."Then she implored the stately bull,His answer we relate in full:"Madam, each beast alive can tellHow very much I wish you well;But business presses in a heap,I an appointment have to keep;And now a lady's in the case,—When other things, you know, give place.Behold the goat is just behind;Trust, trust you'll not think me unkind."The goat declared his rocky lairsWholly unsuited were to hares."There is the sheep," he said, "with fleece.Adapted, now, to your release."The sheep replied that she was sureHer weight was too great to endure;"Besides," she said, "hounds worry sheep."Next was a calf, safe in a keep:"Oh, help me, bull-calf—lend me aid!""My youth and inexperience weighed,"Replied the bull-calf, "though I rue it,Make me incompetent to do it;My friends might take offence. My heart—You know my heart, my friend—we part,I do assure you——Hark! adieu!The pack, in full cry, is in view."FABLE LI.Dog and Fox.(To a Lawyer.)Myfriend, the sophisticated tongueOf lawyers can turn right to wrong;And language, by your skill made pliant,Can save an undeserving client.Is it the fee directs the senseTo injure injured innocence?Or can you, with a double faceLike Janus's, mistate a case?Is scepticism your profession,And justice absent from your session?And is, e'en so, the bar supplied,Where eloquence takes either side?A man can well express his meaning,Except in law deeds, where your gleaningMust be first purchased—must be fee'd;Engrossed, too, the too-prolix deed.But do we shelter beneath law?Ay, till your brother finds the flaw.All wills pass muster, undisputed;Dispute, and they are soon confuted:And you, by instinct, flaws discover,As dogs find coveys in the clover.Sagacious Porta loved to traceLikeness to brutes in lordly face—To ape or owls his sketches liking,Sent the laugh round—they were so striking.So would I draw my satire true,And fix it on myself or you.But you dissent: you do not likeA portrait that shall rudely strike.You write no libels on the state,And party prejudice you hate;But to assail a private nameYou shrink, my friend, and deem it shame.So be it: yet let me in fableKnock a knave over; if I am able.Shall not the decalogue be read,Because the guilty sit in dread?Brutes are my theme: am I to blameIf minds are brutish, men the same?Whom the cap fits, e'en let him wear it—And we are strong enough to bear it.A shepherd's dog, unused to sporting,Picked up acquaintance, all consorting.Amongst the rest, a friendship grew'Twixt him and Reynard, whom he knew.Said Reynard: "'Tis a cruel caseThat man will stigmatize my race:Ah! there are rogues midst men and foxes—You see that where the parish stocks is.Still there are honest men and true—So are there honest foxes too.You see and know I've no disguise,And that, like life, I honour prize."The honest dog threw off distrust,For talk like that seemed good and just.On as they went one day with chatterOf honour and such moral matter,They heard a tramp. "Are hounds abroad?I heard a clatter on the road.""Nay," said the dog: "'tis market-day,Dame Dobbin now is on her way.That foot is Dun's, the pyebald mare:They go to sell their poultry ware.""Their poultry ware! Why poultry me?Sir, your remark is very free.Do I know your Dame Dobbin's farm?Did I e'er do her hen-roost harm?""Why, my good friend, I never meantTo give your spirit discontent.No lamb—for aught I ever knew—Could be more innocent than you.""What do you mean by such a flam?Why do you talk to me of lamb?They lost three lambs: you say that I—I robbed the fold;—you dog, you lie!""Knave," said the dog, "your conscience tweaks:It is the guilty soul that speaks."So saying, on the fox he flies,The self-convicted felon dies.
Pythagoras, at daybreak drawnTo meditate on dewy lawn,To breathe the fragrance of the morning,And, like philosophers, all scorningTo think or care where he was bound,Fell on a farm. A hammer's soundArrested then his thoughts and ear:"My man, what are you doing there?"The clown stood on a ladder's rung,And answered him with rudish tongue:"I've caught the villain—this here kiteKept my hens ever in a fright;I've nailed he here to my barn-door,Him shan't steal turkey-pouts no more."And lo! upon the door displayed,The caitiff kite his forfeit paid."Friend," said Pythagoras, "'tis rightTo murder a marauding kite;But, by analogy, that glutton—That man who feasts on beef and mutton—I say,—that by analogy,—The man who eats a chick should die.'Tis insolence of power and mightWhen man, the glutton, kills the kite."The clown, who heard Pythagoras,Waxed in a rage, called him an ass;Said man was lord of all creation."Man," the sage answered,sanssensation,"You murder hawks and kites, lest theyShould rob you of your fatted prey;And that great rogues may hold their state,The petty rascal meets his fate."
Pythagoras, at daybreak drawnTo meditate on dewy lawn,To breathe the fragrance of the morning,And, like philosophers, all scorningTo think or care where he was bound,Fell on a farm. A hammer's soundArrested then his thoughts and ear:
"My man, what are you doing there?"
The clown stood on a ladder's rung,And answered him with rudish tongue:"I've caught the villain—this here kiteKept my hens ever in a fright;I've nailed he here to my barn-door,Him shan't steal turkey-pouts no more."And lo! upon the door displayed,The caitiff kite his forfeit paid.
"Friend," said Pythagoras, "'tis rightTo murder a marauding kite;But, by analogy, that glutton—That man who feasts on beef and mutton—I say,—that by analogy,—The man who eats a chick should die.'Tis insolence of power and mightWhen man, the glutton, kills the kite."
The clown, who heard Pythagoras,Waxed in a rage, called him an ass;Said man was lord of all creation.
"Man," the sage answered,sanssensation,"You murder hawks and kites, lest theyShould rob you of your fatted prey;And that great rogues may hold their state,The petty rascal meets his fate."
"Whyare those tears? Why droops your head?Say is your swain or husband dead?"The farmer's wife said: "You know wellThe salt was spilt,—to me it fell;And then to add loss unto loss,The knife and fork were laid across.On Friday evening, 'tis too true,Bounce in my lap a coffin flew.Some dire misfortune it portends:I tremble for my absent friends.""Dame," said the neighbour, "tremble not:Be all these prodigies forgot;The while, at least, you eat your dinnerBid the foul fiend avaunt—the sinner!And soon as Betty clears the tableFor a dessert, I'll read a fable."Betwixt her panniers rocked, on DobbinA matron rode to market bobbing,Indulging in a trancelike dreamOf money for her eggs and cream;When direful clamour from her broke:'A raven on the left-hand oak!His horrid croak bodes me some ill.'Here Dobbin stumbled; 'twas down-hill,And somehow he with failing legsFell, and down fell the cream and eggs.She, sprawling, said, 'You rascal craven!You—nasty—filthy—dirty—raven!''Goody,' said raven, 'spare your clamour,There nothing here was done by glamour;Get up again and wipe your gown,It was not I who threw you down;For had you laid your market wareOn Dun—the old sure-footed mare—Though all the ravens in the HundredHad croaked till all the Hundred wondered,Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,And you, good woman, saved your eggs.'"
"Whyare those tears? Why droops your head?Say is your swain or husband dead?"
The farmer's wife said: "You know wellThe salt was spilt,—to me it fell;And then to add loss unto loss,The knife and fork were laid across.On Friday evening, 'tis too true,Bounce in my lap a coffin flew.Some dire misfortune it portends:I tremble for my absent friends."
"Dame," said the neighbour, "tremble not:Be all these prodigies forgot;The while, at least, you eat your dinnerBid the foul fiend avaunt—the sinner!And soon as Betty clears the tableFor a dessert, I'll read a fable.
"Betwixt her panniers rocked, on DobbinA matron rode to market bobbing,Indulging in a trancelike dreamOf money for her eggs and cream;When direful clamour from her broke:'A raven on the left-hand oak!His horrid croak bodes me some ill.'Here Dobbin stumbled; 'twas down-hill,And somehow he with failing legsFell, and down fell the cream and eggs.She, sprawling, said, 'You rascal craven!You—nasty—filthy—dirty—raven!''Goody,' said raven, 'spare your clamour,There nothing here was done by glamour;Get up again and wipe your gown,It was not I who threw you down;For had you laid your market wareOn Dun—the old sure-footed mare—Though all the ravens in the HundredHad croaked till all the Hundred wondered,Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,And you, good woman, saved your eggs.'"
Weblame the mote that dims the eyeOf other men, whose faults we spy;But we ignore the beam that liesWith stronger strain in one's own eyes.A turkey, who grew dull at home,Resolved in the wild woods to roam;Wearied she was of barn-door food,Therefore she chuckled round her brood,And said, "My little ones, now follow;We'll go and dine in yonder hollow."They first upon an ant-hill fell—Myriads of negro-ants, pell-mell—"O gobble, gobble—here's a treat!Emmets are most delicious meat;Spare not, spare not. How blest were we,Could we here live from poulterers free!Accursèd man on turkeys preys,Christmas to us no holy-days;When with the oyster-sauce and chineWe roast that aldermen may dine.They call us 'alderman in chains,'With sausages—the stupid swains!Ah! gluttony is sure the firstOf all the seven sins—the worst!I'd choke mankind, had I the power,From peasant's hut to lordly bower."An ant, who on a neighbouring beechHad climbed the trunk beyond her reach,Thus said to her: "You turkey-hen,What right have you to rail on men?You nor compunction know nor feel,But gobble nations at a meal!"
Weblame the mote that dims the eyeOf other men, whose faults we spy;But we ignore the beam that liesWith stronger strain in one's own eyes.
A turkey, who grew dull at home,Resolved in the wild woods to roam;Wearied she was of barn-door food,Therefore she chuckled round her brood,And said, "My little ones, now follow;We'll go and dine in yonder hollow."They first upon an ant-hill fell—Myriads of negro-ants, pell-mell—"O gobble, gobble—here's a treat!Emmets are most delicious meat;Spare not, spare not. How blest were we,Could we here live from poulterers free!Accursèd man on turkeys preys,Christmas to us no holy-days;When with the oyster-sauce and chineWe roast that aldermen may dine.They call us 'alderman in chains,'With sausages—the stupid swains!Ah! gluttony is sure the firstOf all the seven sins—the worst!I'd choke mankind, had I the power,From peasant's hut to lordly bower."
An ant, who on a neighbouring beechHad climbed the trunk beyond her reach,Thus said to her: "You turkey-hen,What right have you to rail on men?You nor compunction know nor feel,But gobble nations at a meal!"
A manto Jupiter preferredPrayers for a wife: his prayer was heard.Jove smiled to see the man caressingThe granted prayer and doubtful blessing.Again he troubled Jove with prayers:Fraught with a wife, he wanted heirs:They came, to be annoys or joys—One girl and two big bouncing boys.And, a third time, he prayed his prayerFor grace unto his son and heir—That he, who should his name inherit,Might be replete with worth and merit.Then begged his second might aspire,With strong ambition, martial fire;That Fortune he might break or bend,And on her neck to heights ascend.Last, for the daughter, prayed that gracesMight tend upon her face and paces.Jove granted all and every prayer,For daughter, and cadet, and heir.The heir turned out a thorough miser,And lived as lives the college sizar;He took no joy in show or feat,And starving did not choose to eat.The soldier—he held honours martial,And won the baton of field-marshal;And then, for a more princely elf,They laid the warrior on the shelf.The beauty viewed with high disdainThe lover's hopes—the lover's pain;Age overtook her, undecided,And Cupid left her much derided.The father raised his voice above,Complaining of the gifts to Jove;But Jove replied that weal and woeDepended not on outward show—That ignorant of good or ill,Men still beset the heavenly will:The blest were those of virtuous mind,Who were to Providence resigned.
A manto Jupiter preferredPrayers for a wife: his prayer was heard.Jove smiled to see the man caressingThe granted prayer and doubtful blessing.
Again he troubled Jove with prayers:Fraught with a wife, he wanted heirs:They came, to be annoys or joys—One girl and two big bouncing boys.And, a third time, he prayed his prayerFor grace unto his son and heir—That he, who should his name inherit,Might be replete with worth and merit.Then begged his second might aspire,With strong ambition, martial fire;That Fortune he might break or bend,And on her neck to heights ascend.Last, for the daughter, prayed that gracesMight tend upon her face and paces.
Jove granted all and every prayer,For daughter, and cadet, and heir.The heir turned out a thorough miser,And lived as lives the college sizar;He took no joy in show or feat,And starving did not choose to eat.The soldier—he held honours martial,And won the baton of field-marshal;And then, for a more princely elf,They laid the warrior on the shelf.The beauty viewed with high disdainThe lover's hopes—the lover's pain;Age overtook her, undecided,And Cupid left her much derided.
The father raised his voice above,Complaining of the gifts to Jove;But Jove replied that weal and woeDepended not on outward show—That ignorant of good or ill,Men still beset the heavenly will:The blest were those of virtuous mind,Who were to Providence resigned.
Thescholar, of his learning vain,Beholds the fop with deep disdain:The fop, with spirit as discerning,Looks down upon the man of learning.The Spanish Don—a solemn strutter—Despises Gallic airs and flutter:Whilst the Gaul ridicules the Don,And John Bull looks with like disdainOn manners both of France and Spain:They hold, indeed, a deed tripartiteTo see each other in a tart light.'Tis thus the bard is scorned by thoseWho only deal in learned prose:Whilst bards of quick imaginationAre hipped by the dull prose oration.Men scoff at apes: apes scoff at them;And all—except themselves—contemn.Two monkeys visited the fair,Like critics, with Parnassian sneer;They forced a way through draggled folk,Laughed at Jack Pudding and his joke,Then bought their tickets for the show,And squatted in the foremost row;Their cut-of-jib was there so stunning,It set the idle rabble funning."Brother," one Pug to other said,"The mob is certainly ill-bred."A sentiment which found no favour,And the retorts were of ill-savour.The clown with entrance stopped the jar—Head over heels—with "Here we are!"The tumblers made their somersets,The vaulters made tremendous jets;The dancer on the rope did wonders,And drew down the applauses—thunders,As Numa once elicitedFrom Jove Elicius, so they did."Behold the imitative crew!"Said Pug: "they copy me and you,And clumsily. I'd like to seeThem jump from forest-tree to tree;I'd like to see them, on a twig,Perform a slip-slap or a rig;And yet it pleasant is to knowThe boobies estimate us so.""Brother!" the other Pug replied,"They do their best—with us their guide;We must allow praise is their due,Whilst they example good pursue;But when I see them take a flight,Or walk, like they walk—bolt upright,Because we sometimes walk on two—I hate the imitative crew!"
Thescholar, of his learning vain,Beholds the fop with deep disdain:The fop, with spirit as discerning,Looks down upon the man of learning.The Spanish Don—a solemn strutter—Despises Gallic airs and flutter:Whilst the Gaul ridicules the Don,And John Bull looks with like disdainOn manners both of France and Spain:They hold, indeed, a deed tripartiteTo see each other in a tart light.'Tis thus the bard is scorned by thoseWho only deal in learned prose:Whilst bards of quick imaginationAre hipped by the dull prose oration.Men scoff at apes: apes scoff at them;And all—except themselves—contemn.
Two monkeys visited the fair,Like critics, with Parnassian sneer;They forced a way through draggled folk,Laughed at Jack Pudding and his joke,Then bought their tickets for the show,And squatted in the foremost row;Their cut-of-jib was there so stunning,It set the idle rabble funning.
"Brother," one Pug to other said,"The mob is certainly ill-bred."A sentiment which found no favour,And the retorts were of ill-savour.
The clown with entrance stopped the jar—Head over heels—with "Here we are!"The tumblers made their somersets,The vaulters made tremendous jets;The dancer on the rope did wonders,And drew down the applauses—thunders,As Numa once elicitedFrom Jove Elicius, so they did.
"Behold the imitative crew!"Said Pug: "they copy me and you,And clumsily. I'd like to seeThem jump from forest-tree to tree;I'd like to see them, on a twig,Perform a slip-slap or a rig;And yet it pleasant is to knowThe boobies estimate us so."
"Brother!" the other Pug replied,"They do their best—with us their guide;We must allow praise is their due,Whilst they example good pursue;But when I see them take a flight,Or walk, like they walk—bolt upright,Because we sometimes walk on two—I hate the imitative crew!"
Anowl took, in a barn, a stationAs fittest for deep contemplation;There (like a Turk) upon a beamHe sat, as Turks sit in hareem.So smokers, at the Magpie met,Peruse the 'Post-boy' or 'Gazette;'And thence foretell, in wise and sure hope,The future destinies of Europe.The farmer comes to see his sheaves.The owl his silent soul relieves;"Reason in man is sheer pretence,Would he—were he endowed with sense—Treat owls with scorning? He can praiseThe birds that twitter on the sprays:Linnets, and larks, and nightingales,Yet in the nobler owl he fails.Should I, by daylight, view my reign,Those birds would cluster in my train;Why do they pounce upon the wing,Save that they see and own their king?""Pshaw!" said the farmer: "lump of pride!They only follow to deride;Your scream affrights the evening hour,When nightingales enchant the bower.Why all on earth—man, beast, and fowl—Know you for what you are—an owl.You and your train! 'midst Nature's rules,Fools in derision follow fools!"
Anowl took, in a barn, a stationAs fittest for deep contemplation;There (like a Turk) upon a beamHe sat, as Turks sit in hareem.
So smokers, at the Magpie met,Peruse the 'Post-boy' or 'Gazette;'And thence foretell, in wise and sure hope,The future destinies of Europe.
The farmer comes to see his sheaves.The owl his silent soul relieves;"Reason in man is sheer pretence,Would he—were he endowed with sense—Treat owls with scorning? He can praiseThe birds that twitter on the sprays:Linnets, and larks, and nightingales,Yet in the nobler owl he fails.Should I, by daylight, view my reign,Those birds would cluster in my train;Why do they pounce upon the wing,Save that they see and own their king?"
"Pshaw!" said the farmer: "lump of pride!They only follow to deride;Your scream affrights the evening hour,When nightingales enchant the bower.Why all on earth—man, beast, and fowl—Know you for what you are—an owl.You and your train! 'midst Nature's rules,Fools in derision follow fools!"
A juggleronce had travelled thoroughEach city, market-town, and borough;You'd think, so far his art transcended,Old Nick upon his fingers tended.Vice heard his name: she read his bill,And sought his booth—defied his skill.The juggler, willing, laid a wager,Not yet by losses rendered sager;He played his tricks of high emprize,—Confounding touch, deluding eyes.Then cards obeyed his will, and goldFrom empty bags in torrents rolled!He showed an ivory egg: and thenHatched and brought forth the mother-hen!Vice then stepped forth, with look sereneEnough to stir a juggler's spleen:She passed a magic looking-glass,Which pleased alike dame, lad, and lass;Whilst she, a senator addressing,Said: "See this bank-note—lo! a blessing—Breathe on it—Presto! hey! 'tis gone!"And on his lips a padlock shone."Hey, presto!" and another puff,It went, and he spoke well enough!She placed twelve bottles on the board,They were with some enchantment stored;"Hey, presto!" and they disappear—A pair of bloody swords were there.She showed a purse unto a thief,His fingers closed on it in brief;"Hey, presto!" and—the treasure fled—He grasped a halter, noosed, instead.Ambition held a courtier's wand,It turned a hatchet in his hand.A box for charities, she drew;"Blow here!" and a churchwarden blew—"Hey, presto, open!" Opened, in her,For gold was a parochial dinner!Vice shook the dice, she smote the board,And filled all pockets from her hoard.A counter, in a miser's hand,Grew twenty guineas at command;She bade a rake to grasp them, fain—They turned a counter back again.The transmutations of a guineaMade every one stare like a ninny;But fair was false, and false was fair,By which Vice cheated eye and ear.The juggler, though with grief at heart,In recognition of her art,Said: "Now and then I cheat the throng,You every day—and all day long!"
A juggleronce had travelled thoroughEach city, market-town, and borough;You'd think, so far his art transcended,Old Nick upon his fingers tended.
Vice heard his name: she read his bill,And sought his booth—defied his skill.
The juggler, willing, laid a wager,Not yet by losses rendered sager;He played his tricks of high emprize,—Confounding touch, deluding eyes.Then cards obeyed his will, and goldFrom empty bags in torrents rolled!He showed an ivory egg: and thenHatched and brought forth the mother-hen!
Vice then stepped forth, with look sereneEnough to stir a juggler's spleen:She passed a magic looking-glass,Which pleased alike dame, lad, and lass;Whilst she, a senator addressing,Said: "See this bank-note—lo! a blessing—Breathe on it—Presto! hey! 'tis gone!"And on his lips a padlock shone."Hey, presto!" and another puff,It went, and he spoke well enough!She placed twelve bottles on the board,They were with some enchantment stored;"Hey, presto!" and they disappear—A pair of bloody swords were there.She showed a purse unto a thief,His fingers closed on it in brief;"Hey, presto!" and—the treasure fled—He grasped a halter, noosed, instead.Ambition held a courtier's wand,It turned a hatchet in his hand.A box for charities, she drew;"Blow here!" and a churchwarden blew—"Hey, presto, open!" Opened, in her,For gold was a parochial dinner!Vice shook the dice, she smote the board,And filled all pockets from her hoard.A counter, in a miser's hand,Grew twenty guineas at command;She bade a rake to grasp them, fain—They turned a counter back again.The transmutations of a guineaMade every one stare like a ninny;But fair was false, and false was fair,By which Vice cheated eye and ear.
The juggler, though with grief at heart,In recognition of her art,Said: "Now and then I cheat the throng,You every day—and all day long!"
A steedwith mutiny inspiredThe stud which grazed the mead, and firedA colt, whose eyes then blazing fire,Stood forth and thus expressed his ire:"How abject is the equine race,Condemned to slavery's disgrace!Consider, friends, the deep reproach—Harnessed to drag the gilded coach,To drag the plough, to trot the road,To groan beneath the pack-horse load!Whom do we serve?—a two-legged man,Of feeble frame, of visage wan.What! must our noble jaws submitTo champ and foam their galling bit?He back and spur me? Let him firstControl the lion—tiger's thirst:I here avow that I disdainHis might, that I reject his reign.He freedom claims, and why not we?The nag that wills it, must be free!"He paused: the intervening pauseWas followed by some horse-applause.An ancient Nestor of the raceAdvanced, with sober solemn pace;With age and long experience wise,He cast around his thoughtful eyes.He said: "I was with strength endued,And knew the tasks of servitude;Now I am old—and now these plainsAnd grateful man, repay my pains.I ofttimes marvelled to think, howHe knew the times to reap and plough;And to his horses gave a shareOf the fair produce of the year.He built the stable, stored the hay,And winnowed oats from day to day.Since every creature is decreedTo aid his brother in his need,We served each other—horse and man—And carried out the Eternal plan,And each performed his part assigned:Then calm your discontented mind."The Nestor spoke—the colt submitted—And, like his ancestry, was bitted.
A steedwith mutiny inspiredThe stud which grazed the mead, and firedA colt, whose eyes then blazing fire,Stood forth and thus expressed his ire:
"How abject is the equine race,Condemned to slavery's disgrace!Consider, friends, the deep reproach—Harnessed to drag the gilded coach,To drag the plough, to trot the road,To groan beneath the pack-horse load!Whom do we serve?—a two-legged man,Of feeble frame, of visage wan.What! must our noble jaws submitTo champ and foam their galling bit?He back and spur me? Let him firstControl the lion—tiger's thirst:I here avow that I disdainHis might, that I reject his reign.He freedom claims, and why not we?The nag that wills it, must be free!"
He paused: the intervening pauseWas followed by some horse-applause.
An ancient Nestor of the raceAdvanced, with sober solemn pace;With age and long experience wise,He cast around his thoughtful eyes.He said: "I was with strength endued,And knew the tasks of servitude;Now I am old—and now these plainsAnd grateful man, repay my pains.I ofttimes marvelled to think, howHe knew the times to reap and plough;And to his horses gave a shareOf the fair produce of the year.He built the stable, stored the hay,And winnowed oats from day to day.Since every creature is decreedTo aid his brother in his need,We served each other—horse and man—And carried out the Eternal plan,And each performed his part assigned:Then calm your discontented mind."
The Nestor spoke—the colt submitted—And, like his ancestry, was bitted.
Seeingyourselves are wise, ye smileOn fools and folly for a while;But water wears the rocks, and senseIs wearied by impertinence.The wind was southerly, the skyProclaimed that a good scent would lie—Forth from the kennel burst the hounds,As schoolboys sally out of bounds.They hailed the huntsman; he by nameGreeted each dog, who thought it fame.See them obey command: when bade,They scattered thro' the copse and glade;They snuffed the scent upon the gale,And sought the remnant of a trail.Ringwood, a pup, on the alert,Was very young and very pert;He opened—from exuberant spirit—But old dogs heard the puppy in it;But when his note of "Full-cry" rose,The huntsman to the puppy goes,—Down falls the lash,—up rose the yelp,And murmured thus the puppy whelp:"Why lash me? Are you malcontentThat I possess superior scent?"The huntsman answered: "Puppy slipsMust be restrained by lash of whips;Puppies our scorn, not envy, raise—For envy is akin to praise.Had not that forward noisy tongueThe patience of your elders wrung,You might have hunted with the pack;But now the whip assails your back:You must be taught to know your ground,And from a puppy grow a hound."
Seeingyourselves are wise, ye smileOn fools and folly for a while;But water wears the rocks, and senseIs wearied by impertinence.
The wind was southerly, the skyProclaimed that a good scent would lie—Forth from the kennel burst the hounds,As schoolboys sally out of bounds.They hailed the huntsman; he by nameGreeted each dog, who thought it fame.See them obey command: when bade,They scattered thro' the copse and glade;They snuffed the scent upon the gale,And sought the remnant of a trail.
Ringwood, a pup, on the alert,Was very young and very pert;He opened—from exuberant spirit—But old dogs heard the puppy in it;But when his note of "Full-cry" rose,The huntsman to the puppy goes,—Down falls the lash,—up rose the yelp,And murmured thus the puppy whelp:
"Why lash me? Are you malcontentThat I possess superior scent?"
The huntsman answered: "Puppy slipsMust be restrained by lash of whips;Puppies our scorn, not envy, raise—For envy is akin to praise.Had not that forward noisy tongueThe patience of your elders wrung,You might have hunted with the pack;But now the whip assails your back:You must be taught to know your ground,And from a puppy grow a hound."
I scornthe man who builds his fameOn ruins of another's name:As prudes, who prudishly declareThey by a sister scandaled are;As scribblers, covetous of praise,By slandering, snatch themselves the bays;Beauties and bards, alike, are proneTo snatch at honours not their own.As Lesbia listens, all the whister,To hear some scandal of a sister.How can soft souls, which sigh for sueings,Rejoice at one another's ruins?As, in the merry month of May,A bard enjoyed the break of day,And quaffed the fragrant scents ascending,He plucked a blossomed rose, transcendingAll blossoms else; it moved his tongueTo rhapsodize, and thus he sung:"Go, rose, and lieOn Chloë's bosom, and be there caressed;For there would I,Like to a turtle-dove, aye flee to nestFrom jealousyAnd carking care, by which I am opprest.There lie—reposeUpon a bosom fragrant and as fair;Nor rival thoseBeauties ethereal you discover there.For wherefore, rose,Should you, as I, be subject to despair?"
I scornthe man who builds his fameOn ruins of another's name:As prudes, who prudishly declareThey by a sister scandaled are;As scribblers, covetous of praise,By slandering, snatch themselves the bays;Beauties and bards, alike, are proneTo snatch at honours not their own.As Lesbia listens, all the whister,To hear some scandal of a sister.How can soft souls, which sigh for sueings,Rejoice at one another's ruins?
As, in the merry month of May,A bard enjoyed the break of day,And quaffed the fragrant scents ascending,He plucked a blossomed rose, transcendingAll blossoms else; it moved his tongueTo rhapsodize, and thus he sung:
"Go, rose, and lieOn Chloë's bosom, and be there caressed;For there would I,Like to a turtle-dove, aye flee to nestFrom jealousyAnd carking care, by which I am opprest.There lie—reposeUpon a bosom fragrant and as fair;Nor rival thoseBeauties ethereal you discover there.For wherefore, rose,Should you, as I, be subject to despair?"
* * * *
"Spare your comparisons—oh! spare—Of me and fragrancy and fair!"A Maiden-blush, which heard him, said,With face unwontedly flushed red."Tell me, for what committed wrongAm I the metaphor of song?I would you could write rhymes without me,Nor in your ecstacies so flout me.In every ditty must we bloom?Can't you find elsewhere some perfume?Oh! does it add to Chloë's sweetnessTo visit and compare my meetness?And, to enhance her face, must mineBe made to wither, peak, and pine?"
"Spare your comparisons—oh! spare—Of me and fragrancy and fair!"A Maiden-blush, which heard him, said,With face unwontedly flushed red."Tell me, for what committed wrongAm I the metaphor of song?I would you could write rhymes without me,Nor in your ecstacies so flout me.In every ditty must we bloom?Can't you find elsewhere some perfume?Oh! does it add to Chloë's sweetnessTo visit and compare my meetness?And, to enhance her face, must mineBe made to wither, peak, and pine?"
Thelad of mediocre spiritBlurs not with modesty his merit.On all exerting wit and tongue,His rattling jokes, at random flung,Bespatter widely friend and foe.Too late the forward boy will knowThat jokes are often paid in kind,Or rankle longer in the mind.A village cur, with treble throat,Thought he owned music's purest note,And on the highway lay, to show itOr to philosopher or poet.Soon as a roadster's trot was heard,He rose, with nose and ears upreared;As he passed by assailed his heels,Nor left him till they reached the fields.But, as it happened once, a pad,Assailed by Master Snarl, like mad,Flung out, and knocked him in the mire;Nor did he stop to care, inquire,If he had hurt him. On his wayPad passed, and puppy bleeding lay.A shepherd's dog, who saw him bleed,Who hated Snarl and all his breed,Said, "This was brought about by prate,Which horses—even horses—hate!"
Thelad of mediocre spiritBlurs not with modesty his merit.On all exerting wit and tongue,His rattling jokes, at random flung,Bespatter widely friend and foe.Too late the forward boy will knowThat jokes are often paid in kind,Or rankle longer in the mind.
A village cur, with treble throat,Thought he owned music's purest note,And on the highway lay, to show itOr to philosopher or poet.Soon as a roadster's trot was heard,He rose, with nose and ears upreared;As he passed by assailed his heels,Nor left him till they reached the fields.
But, as it happened once, a pad,Assailed by Master Snarl, like mad,Flung out, and knocked him in the mire;Nor did he stop to care, inquire,If he had hurt him. On his wayPad passed, and puppy bleeding lay.
A shepherd's dog, who saw him bleed,Who hated Snarl and all his breed,Said, "This was brought about by prate,Which horses—even horses—hate!"
Onceon a time, in solemn state,Death, in his pomp of terror, sate.Attendant on his gloomy reign,Sadness and Madness, Woe and Pain,His vassal train. With hollow toneThe tyrant muttered from his throne:"We choose a minister to-night;Let him who wills prefer his right,And unto the most worthy handWe will commit the ebon wand."Fever stood forth: "And I appealTo weekly bills to show my zeal.Repelled, repulsed, I persevere;Often quotidian through a year."Gout next appeared to urge his claimFor the racked joints of tortured frame:He, too, besieged the man oppressed,Nor would depart, although suppressed.Then Rheumatics stept forth, and said:"I plague them as they lie in bed."Whilst Palsy said: "I make them stumble;When they get up, I make them tumble."Then quick Consumption, slow Decline,Put in their claims, on counts malign;And Plague preferred his rapid powerTo weed a nation in an hour.At the first pause, the monarch said:"Merit of modesty was bred.Does no physician strive with these?Physicians are content with fees.I say, give Drunkenness the wand;There, give it to his drunken hand.For wary men, as foes, detestYou, Rheumatics—who break their rest—Fever, and Gout, who here contend;But Drunkenness they think their friend,Invite him to their feasts: he sharesAlike their merriments and cares.He for anothermagnumcallsAt weddings, births, and funerals."
Onceon a time, in solemn state,Death, in his pomp of terror, sate.Attendant on his gloomy reign,Sadness and Madness, Woe and Pain,His vassal train. With hollow toneThe tyrant muttered from his throne:
"We choose a minister to-night;Let him who wills prefer his right,And unto the most worthy handWe will commit the ebon wand."
Fever stood forth: "And I appealTo weekly bills to show my zeal.Repelled, repulsed, I persevere;Often quotidian through a year."
Gout next appeared to urge his claimFor the racked joints of tortured frame:He, too, besieged the man oppressed,Nor would depart, although suppressed.
Then Rheumatics stept forth, and said:"I plague them as they lie in bed."
Whilst Palsy said: "I make them stumble;When they get up, I make them tumble."
Then quick Consumption, slow Decline,Put in their claims, on counts malign;And Plague preferred his rapid powerTo weed a nation in an hour.
At the first pause, the monarch said:"Merit of modesty was bred.Does no physician strive with these?Physicians are content with fees.I say, give Drunkenness the wand;There, give it to his drunken hand.For wary men, as foes, detestYou, Rheumatics—who break their rest—Fever, and Gout, who here contend;But Drunkenness they think their friend,Invite him to their feasts: he sharesAlike their merriments and cares.He for anothermagnumcallsAt weddings, births, and funerals."
A florist—wit had run a rig—Had set his fancy on a pig;Which followed master like a dog,And petted was, although a hog.The master thus addressed the swine:"My house and garden both be thine;Feast on potatoes as you please,And riot 'midst the beans and peas;Turnips and carrots, pig, devour,And broccoli and cauliflower;But spare my tulips—my delight,By which I fascinate my sight."But Master Pig, next morning, roamedWhere sweet wort in the coolers foamed.He sucked his fill; then munched some grains,And, whilst inebriated, gainsThe garden for some cooling fruits,And delved his snout for tulip-roots.He did, I tell you, much disaster;So thought, at any rate, his master:"My sole, my only, charge forgot,You drunken and ungrateful sot!""Drunken, yourself!" said Piggy-wiggy;"I ate the roots, not flowers, you priggy!"The florist hit the pig a peg,And piggy turned and tore his leg."Fool that I was," the florist said,"To let that hog come near my bed!Who cherishes a brutal mate,Will mourn the folly, soon or late."
A florist—wit had run a rig—Had set his fancy on a pig;Which followed master like a dog,And petted was, although a hog.
The master thus addressed the swine:"My house and garden both be thine;Feast on potatoes as you please,And riot 'midst the beans and peas;Turnips and carrots, pig, devour,And broccoli and cauliflower;But spare my tulips—my delight,By which I fascinate my sight."
But Master Pig, next morning, roamedWhere sweet wort in the coolers foamed.He sucked his fill; then munched some grains,And, whilst inebriated, gainsThe garden for some cooling fruits,And delved his snout for tulip-roots.He did, I tell you, much disaster;So thought, at any rate, his master:"My sole, my only, charge forgot,You drunken and ungrateful sot!"
"Drunken, yourself!" said Piggy-wiggy;"I ate the roots, not flowers, you priggy!"
The florist hit the pig a peg,And piggy turned and tore his leg.
"Fool that I was," the florist said,"To let that hog come near my bed!Who cherishes a brutal mate,Will mourn the folly, soon or late."
Nothing, methinks, is to be seenOn earth that does not overween.Doth not the hawk, from high, surveyThe fowls as destined for his prey?And do not Cæsars, and such things,Deem men were born to slave for kings?The crab, amidst the golden sandsOf Tagus, or on pearl-strewn strands,Or in the coral-grove marine,Thinks hers each gem of ray serene.The snail, 'midst bordering pinks and roses,Where zephyrs fly and love reposes,Where Laura's cheek vies with the peaches,When Corydon one glance beseeches,—The snail regards both fruit and flower,And thanks God for the granted bower.And man, who, standing on some bluff,Regards the world with soul as tough,—The sun, the moon, the starry sphere,The harvests of the circling year,The mighty ocean, meadows trim,And deems they all are made for him."How infinite," he says, "am I!How wondrous in capacity!Over creation to hold reign,The lord of pleasure and of pain——""Hold hard, my hearty!" said a flea,Perched on his neck, beneath his lee."I do not brag that all creationIs subject to the Flea-ite nation.I know that parasitic races,The Ticks and Lucies have their places;But the imperial race of FleaIs all surpassing—look at me.My concentrated vigour, grant,Then look at yon huge elephant;Look at my leap, at my proboscis,Then go and learn, 'ut tu te noscis,'That man was made with skin to bleed,That families of fleas may feed."
Nothing, methinks, is to be seenOn earth that does not overween.Doth not the hawk, from high, surveyThe fowls as destined for his prey?And do not Cæsars, and such things,Deem men were born to slave for kings?The crab, amidst the golden sandsOf Tagus, or on pearl-strewn strands,Or in the coral-grove marine,Thinks hers each gem of ray serene.The snail, 'midst bordering pinks and roses,Where zephyrs fly and love reposes,Where Laura's cheek vies with the peaches,When Corydon one glance beseeches,—The snail regards both fruit and flower,And thanks God for the granted bower.
And man, who, standing on some bluff,Regards the world with soul as tough,—The sun, the moon, the starry sphere,The harvests of the circling year,The mighty ocean, meadows trim,And deems they all are made for him."How infinite," he says, "am I!How wondrous in capacity!Over creation to hold reign,The lord of pleasure and of pain——"
"Hold hard, my hearty!" said a flea,Perched on his neck, beneath his lee."I do not brag that all creationIs subject to the Flea-ite nation.I know that parasitic races,The Ticks and Lucies have their places;But the imperial race of FleaIs all surpassing—look at me.My concentrated vigour, grant,Then look at yon huge elephant;Look at my leap, at my proboscis,Then go and learn, 'ut tu te noscis,'That man was made with skin to bleed,That families of fleas may feed."
Friendship, as love, is but a name,Save in a concentrated flame;And thus, in friendships, who dependOn more than one, find not one friend.A hare who, in a civil way,Was not dissimilar toGay,Was well known never to offend,And every creature was her friend.As was her wont, at early dawn,She issued to the dewy lawn;When, from the wood and empty lair,The cry of hounds fell on her ear.She started at the frightful sounds,And doubled to mislead the hounds;Till, fainting with her beating heart,She saw the horse, who fed apart."My friend, the hounds are on my track;Oh, let me refuge on your back!"The horse responded: "Honest Puss,It grieves me much to see you thus.Be comforted—relief is near;Behold, the bull is in the rear."Then she implored the stately bull,His answer we relate in full:"Madam, each beast alive can tellHow very much I wish you well;But business presses in a heap,I an appointment have to keep;And now a lady's in the case,—When other things, you know, give place.Behold the goat is just behind;Trust, trust you'll not think me unkind."The goat declared his rocky lairsWholly unsuited were to hares."There is the sheep," he said, "with fleece.Adapted, now, to your release."The sheep replied that she was sureHer weight was too great to endure;"Besides," she said, "hounds worry sheep."Next was a calf, safe in a keep:"Oh, help me, bull-calf—lend me aid!""My youth and inexperience weighed,"Replied the bull-calf, "though I rue it,Make me incompetent to do it;My friends might take offence. My heart—You know my heart, my friend—we part,I do assure you——Hark! adieu!The pack, in full cry, is in view."
Friendship, as love, is but a name,Save in a concentrated flame;And thus, in friendships, who dependOn more than one, find not one friend.
A hare who, in a civil way,Was not dissimilar toGay,Was well known never to offend,And every creature was her friend.As was her wont, at early dawn,She issued to the dewy lawn;When, from the wood and empty lair,The cry of hounds fell on her ear.She started at the frightful sounds,And doubled to mislead the hounds;Till, fainting with her beating heart,She saw the horse, who fed apart."My friend, the hounds are on my track;Oh, let me refuge on your back!"
The horse responded: "Honest Puss,It grieves me much to see you thus.Be comforted—relief is near;Behold, the bull is in the rear."
Then she implored the stately bull,His answer we relate in full:"Madam, each beast alive can tellHow very much I wish you well;But business presses in a heap,I an appointment have to keep;And now a lady's in the case,—When other things, you know, give place.Behold the goat is just behind;Trust, trust you'll not think me unkind."
The goat declared his rocky lairsWholly unsuited were to hares."There is the sheep," he said, "with fleece.Adapted, now, to your release."
The sheep replied that she was sureHer weight was too great to endure;"Besides," she said, "hounds worry sheep."
Next was a calf, safe in a keep:"Oh, help me, bull-calf—lend me aid!"
"My youth and inexperience weighed,"Replied the bull-calf, "though I rue it,Make me incompetent to do it;My friends might take offence. My heart—You know my heart, my friend—we part,I do assure you——Hark! adieu!The pack, in full cry, is in view."
Myfriend, the sophisticated tongueOf lawyers can turn right to wrong;And language, by your skill made pliant,Can save an undeserving client.Is it the fee directs the senseTo injure injured innocence?Or can you, with a double faceLike Janus's, mistate a case?Is scepticism your profession,And justice absent from your session?And is, e'en so, the bar supplied,Where eloquence takes either side?A man can well express his meaning,Except in law deeds, where your gleaningMust be first purchased—must be fee'd;Engrossed, too, the too-prolix deed.But do we shelter beneath law?Ay, till your brother finds the flaw.All wills pass muster, undisputed;Dispute, and they are soon confuted:And you, by instinct, flaws discover,As dogs find coveys in the clover.Sagacious Porta loved to traceLikeness to brutes in lordly face—To ape or owls his sketches liking,Sent the laugh round—they were so striking.So would I draw my satire true,And fix it on myself or you.But you dissent: you do not likeA portrait that shall rudely strike.You write no libels on the state,And party prejudice you hate;But to assail a private nameYou shrink, my friend, and deem it shame.So be it: yet let me in fableKnock a knave over; if I am able.Shall not the decalogue be read,Because the guilty sit in dread?Brutes are my theme: am I to blameIf minds are brutish, men the same?Whom the cap fits, e'en let him wear it—And we are strong enough to bear it.A shepherd's dog, unused to sporting,Picked up acquaintance, all consorting.Amongst the rest, a friendship grew'Twixt him and Reynard, whom he knew.Said Reynard: "'Tis a cruel caseThat man will stigmatize my race:Ah! there are rogues midst men and foxes—You see that where the parish stocks is.Still there are honest men and true—So are there honest foxes too.You see and know I've no disguise,And that, like life, I honour prize."The honest dog threw off distrust,For talk like that seemed good and just.On as they went one day with chatterOf honour and such moral matter,They heard a tramp. "Are hounds abroad?I heard a clatter on the road.""Nay," said the dog: "'tis market-day,Dame Dobbin now is on her way.That foot is Dun's, the pyebald mare:They go to sell their poultry ware.""Their poultry ware! Why poultry me?Sir, your remark is very free.Do I know your Dame Dobbin's farm?Did I e'er do her hen-roost harm?""Why, my good friend, I never meantTo give your spirit discontent.No lamb—for aught I ever knew—Could be more innocent than you.""What do you mean by such a flam?Why do you talk to me of lamb?They lost three lambs: you say that I—I robbed the fold;—you dog, you lie!""Knave," said the dog, "your conscience tweaks:It is the guilty soul that speaks."So saying, on the fox he flies,The self-convicted felon dies.
Myfriend, the sophisticated tongueOf lawyers can turn right to wrong;And language, by your skill made pliant,Can save an undeserving client.Is it the fee directs the senseTo injure injured innocence?Or can you, with a double faceLike Janus's, mistate a case?Is scepticism your profession,And justice absent from your session?And is, e'en so, the bar supplied,Where eloquence takes either side?
A man can well express his meaning,Except in law deeds, where your gleaningMust be first purchased—must be fee'd;Engrossed, too, the too-prolix deed.But do we shelter beneath law?Ay, till your brother finds the flaw.All wills pass muster, undisputed;Dispute, and they are soon confuted:And you, by instinct, flaws discover,As dogs find coveys in the clover.
Sagacious Porta loved to traceLikeness to brutes in lordly face—To ape or owls his sketches liking,Sent the laugh round—they were so striking.So would I draw my satire true,And fix it on myself or you.
But you dissent: you do not likeA portrait that shall rudely strike.You write no libels on the state,And party prejudice you hate;But to assail a private nameYou shrink, my friend, and deem it shame.So be it: yet let me in fableKnock a knave over; if I am able.Shall not the decalogue be read,Because the guilty sit in dread?Brutes are my theme: am I to blameIf minds are brutish, men the same?Whom the cap fits, e'en let him wear it—And we are strong enough to bear it.
A shepherd's dog, unused to sporting,Picked up acquaintance, all consorting.Amongst the rest, a friendship grew'Twixt him and Reynard, whom he knew.
Said Reynard: "'Tis a cruel caseThat man will stigmatize my race:Ah! there are rogues midst men and foxes—You see that where the parish stocks is.Still there are honest men and true—So are there honest foxes too.You see and know I've no disguise,And that, like life, I honour prize."
The honest dog threw off distrust,For talk like that seemed good and just.On as they went one day with chatterOf honour and such moral matter,They heard a tramp. "Are hounds abroad?I heard a clatter on the road."
"Nay," said the dog: "'tis market-day,Dame Dobbin now is on her way.That foot is Dun's, the pyebald mare:They go to sell their poultry ware."
"Their poultry ware! Why poultry me?Sir, your remark is very free.Do I know your Dame Dobbin's farm?Did I e'er do her hen-roost harm?"
"Why, my good friend, I never meantTo give your spirit discontent.No lamb—for aught I ever knew—Could be more innocent than you."
"What do you mean by such a flam?Why do you talk to me of lamb?They lost three lambs: you say that I—I robbed the fold;—you dog, you lie!"
"Knave," said the dog, "your conscience tweaks:It is the guilty soul that speaks."So saying, on the fox he flies,The self-convicted felon dies.