FABLE LXVI.
THE DROWNED WOMAN.
I am not one of those who coolly say,"It's nought but just a woman who is drowned!"I say it's much, yes, much in every way.The sex I reverence. Taking them all round,They are the joy of life, then let their praise resound.And these remarks are reallyapropos:My fable treating of a woman lostIn a deep river. Ill luck willed it so.Her husband sought her, at each ford she'd crossed,To place her body in a fitting tomb.And as he wandered by the fatal shoreOf the swift stream that bore his wife away,The people passing he asked o'er and o'er,If they had seen her on that luckless day.They'd not e'en heard of his sad loss before."No," said the first; "but seek her lower down:Follow the stream, and you will find her yet."Another answer'd: "Follow her! no, no; that's wrong.Go further up, and she'll be there, I bet,Whether the current's weak, or the tide strong."It's my conviction,Such is a woman's love of contradiction,She'll float the other way, your soul to fret.The raillery was out of season;And yet the heedless boor had reason,For such is woman's humour still,To follow out her own good will;Yes, from her very birthday mornTill to the churchyard she is borne,She'd contradict to her last breath,And wish she could e'en after death.
FABLE LXVII.
THE WEASEL IN THE GRANARY.
Once Madame Weasel, slender-waisted, thin,Into a granary, by a narrow chink,Crept, sick and hungry; quick she glided in,To eat her fill, and she was wise, I think.There at her ease,No fear of fees,She gnawed, and nibbled:—gracious, what a life!The bacon melted in the strife.Plump and rotund she grew,As fat as two.A week was over,Spent in clover.But one day, when she'd done—and that not badly—A noise alarmed her sadly.She tried the hole she'd entered, wishing to retreat;'Twas no such easy feat.Was she mistaken?—no, the selfsame door:She tried it, o'er and o'er."Yes, yes," she said, "it is the place, I know;I passed here but a week ago."A Rat who saw her puzzled, slily spoke—"Your pouch was emptier then, before your fast you broke.Empty you came, and empty you must quit:I tell you what I've told a dozen more.But don't perplex the matter, I implore;They differed from you in some ways, I do admit."
FABLE LXVIII.
THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES WITH THE OWNER OF A FIELD.
"Depend upon yourself alone,"Is a sound proverb worthy credit.In Æsop's time it was well known,And there (to tell the truth) I read it.The larks to build their nests began,When wheat was in the green blade still—That is to say, when Nature's planHad ordered Love, with conquering will,To rule the earth, the sea, and air,Tigers in woods, sea monsters in the deep;Nor yet refuse a shareTo larks that in the cornfields keep.One bird, however, of these last,Found that one half the spring was past,Yet brought no mate, such as the season sentTo others. Then with firm intentPlighting her troth, and fairly matched,She built her nest and gravely hatched.All went on well, the corn waved redAbove each little fledgling's head,Before they'd strength enough to fly,And mount into the April sky.A hundred cares the mother Lark compelTo seek with patient care the daily food;But first she warns her restless broodTo watch, and peep, and listen well,And keep a constant sentinel;"And if the owner comes his corn to see,His son, too, as 'twill likely be,Take heed, for when we're sure of it,And reapers come, why, we must flit."No sooner was the Lark away,Than came the owner with his son."The wheat is ripe," he said, "so run,And bring our friends at peep of day,Each with his sickle sharp and ready."The Lark returns: alarm already
THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES.
THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES.
Had seized the covey. One commences—"He said himself, at early morn,His friends he'd call to reap the corn."The old Lark said—"If that is all,My worthy children, keep your senses;No hurry till the first rows fall.We'll not go yet, dismiss all fear,To-morrow keep an open ear;Here's dinner ready, now be gay."They ate and slept the time away.The morn arrives to wake the sleepers,Aurora comes, but not the reapers.The Lark soars up: and on his roundThe farmer comes to view his ground."This wheat," he said, "ought not to stand;Our friends are wrong no helping handTo give, and we are wrong to trustSuch lazy fools for half a crust,Much less for labour. Sons," he cried,"Go, call our kinsmen on each side,We'll go to work." The little LarkGrew more afraid. "Now, mother, mark,The work within an hour's begun."The mother answered—"Sleep, my son;We will not leave our house to-night."Well, no one came; the bird was right.The third time came the master by:"Our error's great," he said, repentantly:"No friend is better than oneself;Remember that, my boy, it's worth some pelf.Now what to do?Why, I and youMust whet our sickles and begin;That is the shortest way, I see;I know at last the surest plan:We'll make our harvest as we can."No sooner had the Lark o'erheard—"'Tis time to flit, my children; come,"Cried out the very prudent bird.Little and big went fluttering, rising,Soaring in a way surprising,And left without a beat of drum.
FABLE LXIX.
THE FLY AND THE ANT.
The Fly and Ant once quarrelled seriously:"O Jupiter!" the first exclaimed, "how vanityBlinds the weak mind! This mean and crawling thingActually ventures to compareWith me, the daughter of the air.The palace I frequent, and on the boardI taste the ox before our sovereign lord;While this poor paltry creature lives for daysOn the small straw she drags through devious ways.Come, Mignon, tell me plainly now,Do you camp ever on a monarch's brow,Or on a beauty's cheek? Well, I do so,—And on her bosom, too, I'd have you know.I sport among her curls; I placeMyself upon her blooming face.The ladies bound for conquest goTo us for patches; their necks' snowWith spots of blackness well contrast,Of all her toilette cares the last.Come, now, good fellow, rack your brain,And let us hear of sense some grain.""Well, have you done?" replied the Ant."You haunt king's palaces, I grant;But then, by every one you're cursed.It's very likely you taste firstThe gods' own special sacred feast:Nor is it better, sir, for that.The fane you enter, with the train—So do the godless and profane.On heads of kings or dogs, 'tis plain,You settle freely when not wanted,And you are punished often—granted.You talk of patches on a belle,I, too, should patch them just as well.The name your vanity delights,Frenchmen bestow on parasites;Cease, then, to be so grossly vain,Your aspirations, Miss, restrain;Your namesakes are exiled or hung,And you with famine will be clung.With cold and freezing misery,Will come your time of penury,When our King Phœbus goes to cheerAnd rule the other hemisphere:But I shall live upon my store,My labours for the summer o'er,Nor over mountains and seas go,Through storm and rain, and drifting snow;No sorrow near me will alloyThe fulness of the present joy;Past trouble bars out future care,True not false glory is our share;And this I wish to show to you—Time flies, and I must work. Adieu!This idle chattering will not fillMy little granary and till."
FABLE LXX.
THE GARDENER AND HIS MASTER.
An amateur of flowers—bourgeois and yet clown—Had made a garden far from any town;Neat, trim, and snug, it was the village pride;Green quickset hedges girt its every side;There the rank sorrel and the lettuce grew,And Spanish jasmine for his Margot, too,Jonquils for holidays, and crisp dry thyme;But all this happiness, one fatal time,Was marred by a hare; his grief and woeCompel the peasant to his lord to go."This cursed animal," he says, "by nightAnd day comes almost hourly for his bite;He spurns my cunning, and defies my snares,For stones and sticks he just as little cares;He is a wizard, that is very sure,And for a wizard is there, sir, a cure?""Wizard, be hanged!" the lord said; "you shall see,His tricks and his wiles will not avail with me;I'll scare the rascal, on my faith, good man.""And when?" "To-morrow; I have got a plan."The thing agreed, he comes with all his troop."Good! let us lunch—fowls tender in the coop?That girl your daughter? come to me, my dear!When you betroth her, there's a brave lad here.I know, good man, the matrimonial curseDigs plaguey deep into a father's purse."The lord, so saying, nearer draws his chair,Plays with the clusters of the daughter's hair,Touches her hand, her arm, with gay respect,Follies that make a father half suspectHer coyness is assumed; meantime they dine,Squander the meat, play havoc with the wine."I like these hams, their flavour and their look.""Sir, they are yours." "Thanks: take them to my cook."He dined, and amply; his retainers, too;Dogs, horses, valets, all well toothed, nor few;My lord commands, such liberties he takes,And fond professions to the daughter makes.The dinner over, and the wine passed round,The hunters rise, and horns and bugles sound;They rouse the game with such a wild halloo,The good man is astonished at the crew;The worst was that, amid this noise and clack,The little kitchen garden went to wrack.Adieu the beds! adieu the borders neat!Peas, chicory, all trodden under feet.Adieu the future soup! The frightened hareBeneath a monster cabbage made his lair.They seek him—find him; "After him, my boys!"He seeks the well-known hole with little noise;Yet not a hole, rather a wound they madeIn the poor hedge with hoof and hunting-blade."By the lord's orders it would never doTo leave the garden but on horseback, no."The good man says; "Royal your sports may be,Call them whate'er you like, but pity me;Those dogs and people did more harm to-dayThan all the hares for fifty years, I say."
FABLE LXXI.
THE WOODMAN AND MERCURY.
TO M. THE COUNT DE B——.
Your taste has always been to me a guide;I've sought in many ways to win your vote:Fastidious cares you often would deride,Forbad me on vain ornament to dote.I think with you an author wastes his days,Who tries with over-care his tale to tell;Yet, it's not wise to banish certain traitsOf subtle grace, that you and I love well.With Æsop's aim, I simply do my best;And fail—well, just as little as I can.Try to instruct by reasoning or jest;No fault of mine if no one likes my plan.Rude strength is not by any means my forte;I seek to pelt, with playful ridicule,Folly and vice; and tease the motley foolWith stinging missiles—any way, in short;Not having brawny arms, like Hercules.That is my only talent, that I know.I have no strength to stem the angry seas,Or set all honest people in a glow.Sometimes I try to paint in fabled guise,A foolish vanity, with envy blended;Two of life's pivots, mocked at by the wise,In satires long ago, and not yet ended.Such, was the miserable creature,Mean and poor in shape, in feature,That tried to puff herself into an ox.Sometimes I try, by playful paradox,To pair a vice with virtue, folly with good sense,Lambs with gaunt wolves, the ant to match the fly;Everywhere laughing at the fool's expense,I mould my work into a comedy,
THE WOODMAN AND MERCURY.
THE WOODMAN AND MERCURY.
With countless acts, the universe its scene,Boundless as the blue serene.Men, gods, and brutes each play their part,With more or less of truth and art.Jove like the rest—come, Mercury;Ah! look, why there he comes, I see;The messenger who's wont to bearJove's frequent errands to the fair—But more of that another day.A Woodman's axe had gone astray,The winner of his bread was gone;And he sat moaning all alone.He had no wealth to buy such things:The axe his clothes and dinner brings.Hopeless, and in a murky place,He sat, the tears ran down his face."My own, my poor old axe! Ah! me,Great Jupiter, I pray to thee;But give it back from down below,And I will strike for thee a blow."His prayer was in Olympus heard;Mercury entered at the word."Your hatchet is not lost," said he;"But will you know it, when you see?I found an axe, just now, hard by."A golden axe he presentlyShowed to the honest man; but "Nay"Was all the fellow cared to say.Next one of silver he refused;Silver or gold he never used.Then one of simple steel and wood;"That's mine!" he cried. "Ah! thankee—good;I'm quite content with this, you see.""Come," said the god, "then take the three—That's my reward for honesty.""In that case, then, I am content,"The rustic said, and off he went.The rumour buzzed the country through,Soon others lost their axes, too;And shouting prayers unto the sky,Jove Mercury sent, to make reply.To each he showed an axe of gold—Who but a fool could it behold,And not say, when he saw it shine—"Hurrah! that's it—yes, that is mine?"But Mercury gave each rogue insteadA heavy thump upon the head.He who with simple truth's content,Will never of his choice repent:To tell a lie for interest,Was never yet of ways the best.What does it profit thus to stoop?Jove is not made an easy dupe.
FABLE LXXII.
THE ASS AND THE LITTLE DOG.
To ape a talent not your ownIs foolish; no one can affect a grace.A blundering blockhead better leave aloneThe gallant's bows, and tricks, and smiling face.To very few is granted Heaven's dower—Few have infused into their life the powerTo please, so better far to leave the charmTo them. And may I ask you, where's the harm?One would not bear resemblance to the Ass,Who wishing to be dearer to his master,Amiably went to kiss him; so it came to passThere followed instantly no small disaster."What!" said he, "shall this paltry thingAssume by dint of toadying,Win Madam's friendly fellowship,And twist and gambol, fawn and skip,While I have only blows? no, no!What does he do?—why, all fools know—He gives his paw; the thing is done,And then they kiss him every one.If that is all, upon my word,To call it difficult 's absurd."Full of this glorious thought, one luckless day,Seeing his master smiling pass that way,The clumsy creature comes, and clumsilyChucks with his well-worn hoof quite gallantlyHis master's chin; to please him still the more,With voice, so sweet, sonorous brays his best."Oh, what caresses, and what melody!"The master cries; "Ho! Martin, come, be quick!And, Martin, bring the heaviest stick!"Then Martin comes; the donkey changed his tune.So ended the brief comedyIn bitter blows and misery.Donkeys' ambitions pass so soon.
FABLE LXXIII.
MAN AND THE WOODEN IDOL.
A certain Pagan had a god of wood—Deaf was the idol, yet had ears enough;The Pagan promised to himself much good.It cost as much as three men; for his fearsInduced repeated vows and offerings;Fat oxen crowned with garlands and such things.Never an idol—think of that—Boasted of victims half as fat.Yet all this worship brought no grace,Treasure or legacy, or luck at play;What's more, if any single storm came near the place,This man was sure to have to pay;Yet all the time the god dined well. Now, was this fair?At last, impatient at the costly care,He takes a crowbar, and the Idol smashes(Crashes).Forth comes a stream of gold."I feasted you with offerings manifold,And you were never worth an obolus to me;Now leave," he said, "my hospitality,Seek out another altar. I hold theeOne of those gross and stupid creaturesWith wicked and untoward naturesWhose gratitude can never grow;But after many a heavy blow,The more I gave the less I got; I ownIt's very well I changed my tone."
FABLE LXXIV.
THE JAY DRESSED IN PEACOCK'S PLUMES.
A Peacock having moulted, the sly JayPut on the thrown-off plumage with delight;Amongst some other Peacocks found his way,And thought himself a fascinating sight.At last the would-be beau got recognised,A charlatan, in borrowed plumes equipt—And laughed at, scouted, hustled, and despised,Of all his second-hand attire got stript;Returning to his friends, abashed and poor,They most politely showed him to the door.Two-footed Jays are anything but rare,Who live on facts and fancies not their own;But these are, luckily, not my affair,So let me leave the plagiarists alone.
THE LITTLE FISH AND THE FISHERMAN.
THE LITTLE FISH AND THE FISHERMAN.
FABLE LXXV.
THE LITTLE FISH AND THE FISHERMAN.
A little Fish will larger grow, in time,If God will only grant him life; and yetTo let him free out of the tangling netIs folly; and I mean it, though I rhyme:The catching him again is not so sure,c'est tout.A little Carp, who half a summer knew,Was taken by an angler's crafty hook."All count," the man said; "this begins my feast:I'll put it in my basket." "Here, just look!"Exclaimed, in his own way, the tiny beast."Now what on earth can you, sir, want with me?I'm not quite half a mouthful, as you see.Let me grow up, and catch me when I'm tall,Then some rich epicure will buy me dear;But now you'll want a hundred, that is plain,Aye, and as much again,To make a dish; and what dish, after all?Why, good for nothing." "Good for nothing, eh?"Replied the Angler. "Come, my little friend,Into the pan you go; so end.Your sermon pleases me, exceedingly.To-night we'll tryHow you will fry."The present, not the future, tenseIs that preferred by men of sense.The one is sure that you have got:The other, verily, is not.
FABLE LXXVI.
BATTLE BETWEEN THE RATS AND WEASELS.
The Weasel nation, like the Cats,Are always fighting with the Rats;And did the Rats not squeeze their wayThrough doors so narrow, I must say,The long-backed creatures would slip in,And swallow all their kith and kin.One certain year it did betide,When Rats were greatly multiplied,Their king, illustrious Ratapon,His army to the field led on.The Weasels, too, were soon arrayed,And the old flag again displayed.If Fame reported just and true,Victory paused between the two;Till fallows were enriched and redWith blood the rival armies shed;But soon in every placeMisfortune met the Rattish race.The rout was so complete, the foeMore dreadful grew at every blow;And what avails brave Artapax,Meridarpax, Psicarpax?Who, covered both with dust and gore,Drove back the Weasels thrice and more,Till driven slowly from the plain,E'en their great courage proved in vain!'Twas Fate that ruled that dreadful hour:Then each one ran who had the power;Soldier and captain, jostling fled,But all the princes were struck dead;The private, nimble in his feet,Unto his hole made snug retreat.The noble, with his lofty plume,Found that he had by no means room.To strike with terror—yes, or whetherA mark of honour—rose the feather,That led to much calamity,As very soon the nobles see;Neither in cranny, hole, or crack,Was space found for the plumed pack.In the meantime, the populaceFound access to each lurking-place,So that the largest heap of slainFrom the Rat noblemen is ta'en.A nodding feather in the capIs oftentimes a great mishap;A big and over-gilded coachWill sometimes stop up an approach;The smaller people, in most cases,Escape by unregarded places:Men soon are on great people's traces.
FABLE LXXVII.
THE CAMEL AND THE DRIFT-WOOD.
The first who saw a real live CamelRan for his life; the second ventured near;The third, with ready rope, without a fear,Made a strong halter the wild thing to trammel.Habit has power to quickly changeThings that at first seem odd and strange;Stale they grow, and quickly tame,And hardly seem to be the same.And since the question's open, once there stoodA look-out watching all the distant flood;And seeing something far off on the ocean,Could not conceal his notionIt was a man-of-war; a moment pastIt turned a fire ship, all ataunt and brave,Then a big boat, and next a bale, and lastSome mere drift timber jostling on the wave.How many things watched by the world agreeIn this—that far away you seeThat there is something, yet when sought,And seen still nearer, it proves nought.
FABLE LXXVIII.
THE FROG AND THE RAT.
Merlin said well, that those who often cheatWill sometimes cheat themselves—the phrase is old.I'm sorry that it is, I must repeatIt's full of energy, and sound as gold.But to my story: once a well-fed Rat,Rotund and wealthy, plump and fat,Not knowing either Fast or Lent,Lounging beside a marsh pool went.A Frog addressed him in the Frog's own tongue,And asked him home to dinner civilly.No need to make the invitation long.He spoke, however, of the things he'd see:The pleasant bath, worth curiosity;The novelties along the marsh's shore,The score and scoreOf spots of beauty, manners of the races,The government of various places,Some day he would recount with gleeUnto his youthful progeny;One thing alone the gallant vexed,And his adventurous soul perplexed;He swam but little, and he needed aid.The friendly Frog was undismayed;His paw to hers she strongly tied,And then they started side by side.The hostess towed her frightened guestQuick to the bottom of the lake—Perfidious breach of law of nations—All promises she faithless breaks,And sinks her friend to make fresh rations.Already did her appetiteDwell on the morsel with delight,Lunch,Scrunch!He prays the gods; she mocks his woe;He struggles up; she pulls below.And while this combat is fought out,A Kite that's seeking all aboutSees the poor Rat that's like to drown;And pounces swift as lightning down.The Frog tied to him, by the way,Also became the glad Kite's prey;They gave him all that he could wish,A supper both of meat and fish.So oftentimes a base deceitFalls back upon the father cheat;So oftentimes doth perfidyReturn with triple usury.
THE OLD WOMAN AND HER SERVANTS.
THE OLD WOMAN AND HER SERVANTS.
FABLE LXXIX.
THE OLD WOMAN AND HER SERVANTS.
A Beldam kept two maids, whose spinningOutdid the Fates. No care had sheBut setting tasks that, still beginning,Went on to all infinity.Phœbus had scarcely shaken outHis golden locks, ere wheels were winding,And spindles whirled and danced about,The spools of thread these captives binding:Whiz—whiz; no resting; work and work!Soon as Aurora showed her face,A crowing Cock aroused the Turk,Who, scrambling on her gown apace,Lit up the lamp, and sought the bedWhere, with good will and appetite,Each wretched servant's weary headHad rested for the blessed night.One opened half an eye; the other stretchedA weary arm; both, under breath,Vowed (poor worn-out and weary wretches!)To squeeze that Chanticleer to death.The deed was done: they trapped the bird.And yet it wrought them little good;For now, ere well asleep, they heardThe old crone, fearing lest they shouldO'ersleep themselves, their watchful warner gone;She never left them less alone.And so it is, that often menWho think they're getting to the shore,Are sucked back by the sea once more.This couple are a proof againHow near Charybdis Scylla's whirlpools roar.
FABLE LXXX.
THE ANIMALS SENDING A TRIBUTE TO ALEXANDER.
A Fable current in the ancient timesHad surely meaning; but none clear to me.Its moral's somewhere, reader, in these rhymes,So here's the thing itself for you to see.Fame had loud rumoured in a thousand placesOf Jove's great son, a certain Alexander,Who had resolved, however sour men's faces,To leave none free; moreover, this commanderHad summoned every living thing beneath the skiesTo come and worship at his sovereign feet:Quadrupeds, bipeds, elephants, and flies;The bird republic, also, were to meet.The goddess of the hundred mouths, I say,Having thus spread a wide dismay,By publishing the conqueror's decree,The animals, and all that do obeyTheir appetites alone, began to think that nowThey should be kept in slavery,And to fresh laws and other customs bow.They met in the wild desert and decide,After long sittings and conflicting chatter,To pay a tribute, pocketing their pride.The Monkey was to manage style and matter(Chief of all diplomats in every way);They write down what he has to say.The tribute only vexed the creatures:No money! how their cash to pay?Well from a prince, who chanced to ownSome mines of gold, they got a loan.To bear the tribute volunteeredThe Mule and Ass, and they were cheered;The Horse and Camel lent their aid.Then gaily started all the four,Led by the new ambassador.The caravan went on till, in a narrow place,They saw his majesty the Lion's face;They did not like his look at all,Still less when he began to call."Well met; and just in time," quoth he;"Your fellow-traveller I will be;Your toil I wish to freely share,My tribute's light, yet hard to bear;I'm not accustomed to a load; so, please,Take each a quarter at your ease,To you 'tis nothing, that I feel;If robbers come to pick and steal,I shall not be the last to fight:A Lion is not backward in a fray."They welcome him, and he's in pleasant plight;So, spite of Jove-sprung hero, every dayUpon the public purse he battens,And on good deer he quickly fattens.They reach at last a meadow land,With flowers besprinkled, fed by brooks;The sheep feed there on either hand,Unguarded by the shepherd's crooks:It is the summer zephyr's home.No sooner has the Lion come,Than he of fever much complains;"Continue, sirs, your embassy,"Said he; "but burning, darting painsTorment me now exceedingly.I seek some herb for speedy cure;You must not long delay, I'm sure;Give me my money; quick! I'm hurried."Then quickly out the gold was scurried.The Lion, quite delighted, cried,In tones that showed his joy and pride,"Ye gods! my gold has hatched its brood;And, look! the young ones are all grownBig as the old ones; that is good:The increase comes to me alone."He took the whole, although he was not bid;Or if he didn't, some one like him did.The Monkey and his retinueHalf frightened and half angry grew,But did not dare reply; so left him there.'Tis said that they complained at court; but whereWas then the use? in vain their loud abuse.What could he do? Jove's royal scion!'Twould have been Lion against Lion.'Tis said when Corsairs fight Corsairs,They are not minding their affairs.
FABLE LXXXI.
THE HORSE WISHING TO BE REVENGED ON THE STAG.
Horses were once as free as air,When man on acorns lived content.Ass, horse, and mule unfettered wentThrough field and forest, anywhere,Without a thought of toil and care.Nor saw one then, as in this age,Saddles and pillions every stage,Harness for march, and work, and battle,Or chaises drawn by hungry cattle.Nor were there then so many marriages,Nor feasts that need a host of carriages.'Twas at this time there was a keen disputeBetween a Stag who quarrelled with a Horse,Unable to run down the nimble brute:To kindly Man he came, for aid, of course;Man bridled him and leaped upon his back,Nor rested till the Stag was caught and slain.The Horse thanked heartily the Man, good lack:"Adieu, yours truly, I'll trot off again,Home to the wild wood and the breezy plain.""Not quite so fast," the smiling Man replied,"I know too well your use, you must remain;I'll treat you well, yes, very well," he cried:"Up to your ears the provender shall be,And you shall feed in ease and luxury."Alas! what's food without one's liberty?The Horse his folly soon perceived;But far too late the creature grieved.His stable was all ready near the spot,And there, with halter round his neck, he died,Wiser had he his injuries forgot.Revenge is sweet to injured pride;But it is bought too dear, if boughtWith that without which all things else are nought.
FABLE LXXXII.
THE FOX AND THE BUST.
The great too often wear the actor's mask;The vulgar worshippers the show beguiles;The ass looks on the surface; 'tis the taskOf the wise Fox to go far deeper; full of wiles,He pries on every side, and turns, and peeps,And watches—Reynard never sleeps.And when he finds in many a placeThe great man nothing but a pompous face,Repeats, what once he subtly saidUnto a hero's plaster head—-A hollow bust, and of enormous size—Praising it with contemptuous eyes,"Fine head," said he, "but without brains."The saving's worth the listener's pains;To many a noble lord themotapplies.
THE HORSE AND THE WOLF.
THE HORSE AND THE WOLF.
FABLE LXXXIII.
THE HORSE AND THE WOLF.
A certain Wolf, in that soft, pleasant season,When gentle zephyrs freshen every flower,And animals leave home, for this good reason—They want to make their hay before the shower:A Wolf, I say, after rough winters rigour,Perceived a Horse newly turned out to grass.You may imagine what his joy was. VigourCame to him, when he saw the creature pass."Good game!" he said; "I wonder for whose spit?No sheep this time—I only wish you were.But this wants cunning, and some little wit:Then let's be cunning." So—with learned air,As practised scholar of Hippocrates,Who knew the virtues and demerits, too,Of all the simples of the fields and leas,And knew the way to cure (the praise is due)All sorts of sad diseases—if Sir HorseWould tell his malady, he'd cure the ill,Quite gratis; for to see him course,Wandering untethered, at his own free will,Showed something wrong, if science did not err."I have an aposthume," the Horse replied,"Under my foot." "My son," the doctor cried,"There is no part so sensitive to blows.I have the honour to attend your race,And am a surgeon, too, the whole world knows."The rascal only waited opportunityTo leap upon the invalid's sunk flanks.The Horse, who had mistrust, impatientlyGave him a kick, expressive of his thanks,That made a marmalade of teeth and jaws."Well done!" the Wolf growled, to himself reflecting:"Each one should stick to his own trade. My clawsWere made for butchery, not herb-collecting."