A pagan kept a god of wood,--
    A sort that never hears,
    Though furnish'd well with ears,--
  From which he hoped for wondrous good.
  The idol cost the board of three;
    So much enrich'd was he
    With vows and offerings vain,
  With bullocks garlanded and slain:
    No idol ever had, as that,
    A kitchen quite so full and fat.
  But all this worship at his shrine
  Brought not from this same block divine
  Inheritance, or hidden mine,
    Or luck at play, or any favour.
    Nay, more, if any storm whatever
  Brew'd trouble here or there,
  The man was sure to have his share,
    And suffer in his purse,
  Although the god fared none the worse.
  At last, by sheer impatience bold,
      The man a crowbar seizes,
      His idol breaks in pieces,
  And finds it richly stuff'd with gold.
  'How's this? Have I devoutly treated,'
  Says he, 'your godship, to be cheated?
  Now leave my house, and go your way,
  And search for altars where you may.
  You're like those natures, dull and gross,
  From, which comes nothing but by blows;
  The more I gave, the less I got;
  I'll now be rich, and you may rot.'

    A peacock moulted: soon a jay was seen
    Bedeck'd with Argus tail of gold and green,[13]
    High strutting, with elated crest,
    As much a peacock as the rest.
      His trick was recognized and bruited,
      His person jeer'd at, hiss'd, and hooted.
      The peacock gentry flock'd together,
      And pluck'd the fool of every feather.
  Nay more, when back he sneak'd to join his race,
    They shut their portals in his face.

        There is another sort of jay,
        The number of its legs the same,
    Which makes of borrow'd plumes display,
        And plagiary is its name.
      But hush! the tribe I'll not offend;
      'Tis not my work their ways to mend.

  The first who saw the humpback'd camel
    Fled off for life; the next approach'd with care;
    The third with tyrant rope did boldly dare
  The desert wanderer to trammel.
    Such is the power of use to change
    The face of objects new and strange;
    Which grow, by looking at, so tame,
    They do not even seem the same.
  And since this theme is up for our attention,
    A certain watchman I will mention,
      Who, seeing something far
        Away upon the ocean,
        Could not but speak his notion
      That 'twas a ship of war.
    Some minutes more had past,--
      A bomb-ketch 'twas without a sail,
      And then a boat, and then a bale,
    And floating sticks of wood at last!

      Full many things on earth, I wot,
    Will claim this tale,--and well they may;
    They're something dreadful far away,
      But near at hand--they're not.

      They to bamboozle are inclined,
        Saith Merlin,[16] who bamboozled are.
      The word, though rather unrefined,
  Has yet an energy we ill can spare;
  So by its aid I introduce my tale.
      A well-fed rat, rotund and hale,
      Not knowing either Fast or Lent,
      Disporting round a frog-pond went.
  A frog approach'd, and, with a friendly greeting,
    Invited him to see her at her home,
  And pledged a dinner worth his eating,--
    To which the rat was nothing loath to come.
  Of words persuasive there was little need:
    She spoke, however, of a grateful bath;
  Of sports and curious wonders on their path;
  Of rarities of flower, and rush, and reed:
      One day he would recount with glee
      To his assembled progeny
    The various beauties of these places,
    The customs of the various races,
    And laws that sway the realms aquatic,
    (She did not mean the hydrostatic!)
    One thing alone the rat perplex'd,--
    He was but moderate as a swimmer.
    The frog this matter nicely fix'd
      By kindly lending him her
    Long paw, which with a rush she tied
    To his; and off they started, side by side.
    Arrived upon the lakelet's brink,
    There was but little time to think.
  The frog leap'd in, and almost brought her
  Bound guest to land beneath the water.
    Perfidious breach of law and right!
      She meant to have a supper warm
      Out of his sleek and dainty form.
    Already did her appetite
    Dwell on the morsel with delight.
    The gods, in anguish, he invokes;
    His faithless hostess rudely mocks;
    He struggles up, she struggles down.
      A kite, that hovers in the air,
      Inspecting everything with care,
    Now spies the rat belike to drown,
        And, with a rapid wing,
        Upbears the wretched thing,
    The frog, too, dangling by the string!
    The joy of such a double haul
    Was to the hungry kite not small.
    It gave him all that he could wish--
    A double meal of flesh and fish.

      The best contrived deceit
        Can hurt its own contriver,
      And perfidy doth often cheat
        Its author's purse of every stiver.

    A fable flourished with antiquity
    Whose meaning I could never clearly see.
    Kind reader, draw the moral if you're able:
      I give you here the naked fable.
  Fame having bruited that a great commander,
  A son of Jove, a certain Alexander,
  Resolved to leave nought free on this our ball,
  Had to his footstool gravely summon'd all
  Men, quadrupeds, and nullipeds, together
  With all the bird-republics, every feather,--
  The goddess of the hundred mouths, I say,
      Thus having spread dismay,
    By widely publishing abroad
  This mandate of the demigod,
  The animals, and all that do obey
  Their appetite alone, mistrusted now
  That to another sceptre they must bow.
    Far in the desert met their various races,
      All gathering from their hiding-places.
        Discuss'd was many a notion.
        At last, it was resolved, on motion,
  To pacify the conquering banner,
    By sending homage in, and tribute.
  With both the homage and its manner
    They charged the monkey, as a glib brute;
  And, lest the chap should too much chatter,
  In black on white they wrote the matter.
    Nought but the tribute served to fash,
    As that must needs be paid in cash.
    A prince, who chanced a mine to own,
    At last, obliged them with a loan.
  The mule and ass, to bear the treasure,
  Their service tender'd, full of pleasure;
  And then the caravan was none the worse,
  Assisted by the camel and the horse.
    Forthwith proceeded all the four
    Behind the new ambassador,
  And saw, erelong, within a narrow place,
  Monseigneur Lion's quite unwelcome face.
    'Well met, and all in time,' said he;
    'Myself your fellow traveller will be.
    I wend my tribute by itself to bear;
    And though 'tis light, I well might spare
      The unaccustom'd load.
    Take each a quarter, if you please,
    And I will guard you on the road;
        More free and at my ease--
    In better plight, you understand,
    To fight with any robber band.'
      A lion to refuse, the fact is,
      Is not a very usual practice:
    So in he comes, for better and for worse;
      Whatever he demands is done,
      And, spite of Jove's heroic son,
    He fattens freely from the public purse.
      While wending on their way,
      They found a spot one day,
    With waters hemm'd, of crystal sheen;
    Its carpet, flower-besprinkled green;
      Where pastured at their ease
    Both flocks of sheep and dainty heifers,
      And play'd the cooling breeze--
    The native land of all the zephyrs.
      No sooner is the lion there
    Than of some sickness he complains.
      Says he, 'You on your mission fare.
    A fever, with its thirst and pains,
    Dries up my blood, and bakes my brains;
      And I must search some herb,
      Its fatal power to curb.
    For you, there is no time to waste;
    Pay me my money, and make haste.'
      The treasures were unbound,
      And placed upon the ground.
    Then, with a look which testified
    His royal joy, the lion cried,
  'My coins, good heavens, have multiplied!
  And see the young ones of the gold
  As big already as the old!
  The increase belongs to me, no doubt;'
    And eagerly he took it out!
      'Twas little staid beneath the lid;
      The wonder was that any did.
    Confounded were the monkey and his suite.
  And, dumb with fear, betook them to their way,
  And bore complaint to Jove's great son, they say--
      Complaint without a reason meet;
    For what could he? Though a celestial scion,
    He could but fight, as lion versus lion.

      When corsairs battle, Turk with Turk,
      They're not about their proper work.

    The horses have not always been
      The humble slaves of men.
      When, in the far-off past,
    The fare of gentlemen was mast,
    And even hats were never felt,
    Horse, ass, and mule in forests dwelt.
    Nor saw one then, as in these ages,
      So many saddles, housings, pillions;
    Such splendid equipages,
      With golden-lace postilions;
        Such harnesses for cattle,
        To be consumed in battle;
    As one saw not so many feasts,
    And people married by the priests.
    The horse fell out, within that space,
      With the antler'd stag, so fleetly made:
    He could not catch him in a race,
      And so he came to man for aid.
      Man first his suppliant bitted;
      Then, on his back well seated,
    Gave chase with spear, and rested not
    Till to the ground the foe he brought.
    This done, the honest horse, quite blindly,
    Thus thank'd his benefactor kindly:--
      'Dear sir, I'm much obliged to you;
      I'll back to savage life. Adieu!'
        'O, no,' the man replied;
        'You'd better here abide;
        I know too well your use.
        Here, free from all abuse,
        Remain a liege to me,
      And large your provender shall be.'
      Alas! good housing or good cheer,
      That costs one's liberty, is dear.
      The horse his folly now perceived,
      But quite too late he grieved.
        No grief his fate could alter;
    His stall was built, and there he lived,
        And died there in his halter.
  Ah! wise had he one small offence forgot!
  Revenge, however sweet, is dearly bought
  By that one good, which gone, all else is nought.

    The great are like the maskers of the stage;
    Their show deceives the simple of the age.
    For all that they appear to be they pass,
    With only those whose type's the ass.
    The fox, more wary, looks beneath the skin,
  And looks on every side, and, when he sees
    That all their glory is a semblance thin,
  He turns, and saves the hinges of his knees,
      With such a speech as once, 'tis said,
      He utter'd to a hero's head.
    A bust, somewhat colossal in its size,
    Attracted crowds of wondering eyes.
    The fox admired the sculptor's pains:
    'Fine head,' said he, 'but void of brains!'
    The same remark to many a lord applies.

  As went the goat her pendent dugs to fill,
  And browse the herbage of a distant hill,
      She latch'd her door, and bid,
      With matron care, her kid;--
      'My daughter, as you live,
        This portal don't undo
        To any creature who
      This watchword does not give:
    "Deuce take the wolf and all his race!"'
    The wolf was passing near the place
  By chance, and heard the words with pleasure,
      And laid them up as useful treasure;
    And hardly need we mention,
    Escaped the goat's attention.
      No sooner did he see
      The matron off, than he,
    With hypocritic tone and face,
    Cried out before the place,
    'Deuce take the wolf and all his race!'
      Not doubting thus to gain admission.
      The kid, not void of all suspicion,
      Peer'd through a crack, and cried,
        'Show me white paw before
        You ask me to undo the door.'
      The wolf could not, if he had died,
        For wolves have no connexion
      With paws of that complexion.
    So, much surprised, our gormandiser
    Retired to fast till he was wiser.
    How would the kid have been undone
      Had she but trusted to the word
      The wolf by chance had overheard!
    Two sureties better are than one;
      And caution's worth its cost,
      Though sometimes seeming lost.

  This wolf another brings to mind,
  Who found dame Fortune more unkind,
    In that the greedy, pirate sinner,
    Was balk'd of life as well as dinner.
  As saith our tale, a villager
    Dwelt in a by, unguarded place;
  There, hungry, watch'd our pillager
    For luck and chance to mend his case.
  For there his thievish eyes had seen
  All sorts of game go out and in--
  Nice sucking calves, and lambs and sheep;
    And turkeys by the regiment,
    With steps so proud, and necks so bent,
  They'd make a daintier glutton weep.
  The thief at length began to tire
  Of being gnaw'd by vain desire.
  Just then a child set up a cry:
  'Be still,' the mother said, 'or I
  Will throw you to the wolf, you brat!'
  'Ha, ha!' thought he, 'what talk is that!
  The gods be thank'd for luck so good!'
  And ready at the door he stood,
  When soothingly the mother said,
    'Now cry no more, my little dear;
    That naughty wolf, if he comes here,
    Your dear papa shall kill him dead.'
    'Humph!' cried the veteran mutton-eater.
      'Now this, now that! Now hot, now cool!
    Is this the way they change their metre?
      And do they take me for a fool?
    Some day, a nutting in the wood,
    That young one yet shall be my food.'
    But little time has he to dote
      On such a feast; the dogs rush out
    And seize the caitiff by the throat;
      And country ditchers, thick and stout,
    With rustic spears and forks of iron,
    The hapless animal environ.
    'What brought you here, old head?' cried one.
      He told it all, as I have done.
  'Why, bless my soul!' the frantic mother said,--
      'You, villain, eat my little son!
    And did I nurse the darling boy,
    Your fiendish appetite to cloy?'
  With that they knock'd him on the head.
    His feet and scalp they bore to town,
      To grace the seigneur's hall,
      Where, pinn'd against the wall,
    This verse completed his renown:--
    "Ye honest wolves, believe not all
    That mothers say, when children squall!"

      A house was built by Socrates
      That failed the public taste to please.
  Some blamed the inside; some, the out; and all
      Agreed that the apartments were too small.
  Such rooms for him, the greatest sage of Greece!
      'I ask,' said he, 'no greater bliss
      Than real friends to fill e'en this.'
      And reason had good Socrates
      To think his house too large for these.
      A crowd to be your friends will claim,
        Till some unhandsome test you bring.
      There's nothing plentier than the name;
        There's nothing rarer than the thing.

      All power is feeble with dissension:
        For this I quote the Phrygian slave.[24]
      If aught I add to his invention,
        It is our manners to engrave,
      And not from any envious wishes;--
      I'm not so foolishly ambitious.
      Phaedrus enriches oft his story,
      In quest--I doubt it not--of glory:
      Such thoughts were idle in my breast.
  An aged man, near going to his rest,
  His gather'd sons thus solemnly address'd:--
  'To break this bunch of arrows you may try;
  And, first, the string that binds them I untie.'
  The eldest, having tried with might and main,
      Exclaim'd, 'This bundle I resign
      To muscles sturdier than mine.'
  The second tried, and bow'd himself in vain.
  The youngest took them with the like success.
  All were obliged their weakness to confess.
  Unharm'd the arrows pass'd from son to son;
  Of all they did not break a single one.
  'Weak fellows!' said their sire, 'I now must show
  What in the case my feeble strength can do.'
  They laugh'd, and thought their father but in joke,
  Till, one by one, they saw the arrows broke.
  'See, concord's power!' replied the sire; 'as long
  As you in love agree, you will be strong.
  I go, my sons, to join our fathers good;
  Now promise me to live as brothers should,
  And soothe by this your dying father's fears.'
  Each strictly promised with a flood of tears.
  Their father took them by the hand, and died;
  And soon the virtue of their vows was tried.
      Their sire had left a large estate
      Involved in lawsuits intricate;
      Here seized a creditor, and there
      A neighbour levied for a share.
      At first the trio nobly bore
      The brunt of all this legal war.
      But short their friendship as 'twas rare.
  Whom blood had join'd--and small the wonder!--
    The force of interest drove asunder;
      And, as is wont in such affairs,
      Ambition, envy, were co-heirs.
      In parcelling their sire's estate,
      They quarrel, quibble, litigate,
      Each aiming to supplant the other.
      The judge, by turns, condemns each brother.
      Their creditors make new assault,
      Some pleading error, some default.
      The sunder'd brothers disagree;
      For counsel one, have counsels three.
  All lose their wealth; and now their sorrows
  Bring fresh to mind those broken arrows.

    That man his Maker can deceive,
    Is monstrous folly to believe.
  The labyrinthine mazes of the heart
  Are open to His eyes in every part.
  Whatever one may do, or think, or feel,
  From Him no darkness can the thing conceal.
  A pagan once, of graceless heart and hollow,
    Whose faith in gods, I'm apprehensive,
    Was quite as real as expensive.
  Consulted, at his shrine, the god Apollo.
    'Is what I hold alive, or not?'
    Said he,--a sparrow having brought,
  Prepared to wring its neck, or let it fly,
  As need might be, to give the god the lie.
        Apollo saw the trick,
        And answer'd quick,
    'Dead or alive, show me your sparrow,
      And cease to set for me a trap
      Which can but cause yourself mishap.
    I see afar, and far I shoot my arrow.'

    'Tis use that constitutes possession.
    I ask that sort of men, whose passion
      It is to get and never spend,
      Of all their toil what is the end?
    What they enjoy of all their labours
    Which do not equally their neighbours?
    Throughout this upper mortal strife,
    The miser leads a beggar's life.
    Old Aesop's man of hidden treasure
      May serve the case to demonstrate.
        He had a great estate,
      But chose a second life to wait
    Ere he began to taste his pleasure.
    This man, whom gold so little bless'd,
    Was not possessor, but possess'd.
    His cash he buried under ground,
    Where only might his heart be found;
    It being, then, his sole delight
    To ponder of it day and night,
    And consecrate his rusty pelf,
    A sacred offering, to himself.
    In all his eating, drinking, travel,
  Most wondrous short of funds he seem'd;
  One would have thought he little dream'd
    Where lay such sums beneath the gravel.
  A ditcher mark'd his coming to the spot,
        So frequent was it,
  And thus at last some little inkling got
        Of the deposit.
    He took it all, and babbled not.
      One morning, ere the dawn,
      Forth had our miser gone
    To worship what he loved the best,
    When, lo! he found an empty nest!
    Alas! what groaning, wailing, crying!
    What deep and bitter sighing!
      His torment makes him tear
      Out by the roots his hair.
      A passenger demandeth why
      Such marvellous outcry.
  'They've got my gold! it's gone--it's gone!'
  'Your gold! pray where?'--'Beneath this stone.'
    'Why, man, is this a time of war,
    That you should bring your gold so far?
    You'd better keep it in your drawer;
    And I'll be bound, if once but in it,
    You could have got it any minute.'
    'At any minute! Ah, Heaven knows
    That cash comes harder than it goes!
    I touch'd it not.'--'Then have the grace
    To explain to me that rueful face,'
      Replied the man; 'for, if 'tis true
    You touch'd it not, how plain the case,
    That, put the stone back in its place,
      And all will be as well for you!'

      A stag took refuge from the chase
        Among the oxen of a stable,
        Who counsel'd him, as saith the fable,
      To seek at once some safer place.
      'My brothers,' said the fugitive,
      'Betray me not, and, as I live,
      The richest pasture I will show,
      That e'er was grazed on, high or low;
      Your kindness you will not regret,
      For well some day I'll pay the debt.'
        The oxen promised secrecy.
  Down crouch'd the stag, and breathed more free.
      At eventide they brought fresh hay,
      As was their custom day by day;
      And often came the servants near,
      As did indeed the overseer,
      But with so little thought or care,
      That neither horns, nor hide, nor hair
      Reveal'd to them the stag was there.
    Already thank'd the wild-wood stranger
      The oxen for their treatment kind,
      And there to wait made up his mind,
    Till he might issue free from danger.
    Replied an ox that chew'd the cud,
    'Your case looks fairly in the bud;
    But then I fear the reason why
    Is, that the man of sharpest eye
    Hath not yet come his look to take.
    I dread his coming, for your sake;
    Your boasting may be premature:
    Till then, poor stag, you're not secure.'
    'Twas but a little while before
    The careful master oped the door.
      'How's this, my boys?' said he;
    'These empty racks will never do.
    Go, change this dirty litter too.
      More care than this I want to see
      Of oxen that belong to me.
  Well, Jim, my boy, you're young and stout;
  What would it cost to clear these cobwebs out?
  And put these yokes, and hames, and traces,
  All as they should be, in their places?'
    Thus looking round, he came to see
    One head he did not usually.
      The stag is found; his foes
      Deal heavily their blows.
    Down sinks he in the strife;
      No tears can save his life.
  They slay, and dress, and salt the beast,
  And cook his flesh in many a feast,
  And many a neighbour gets a taste.
    As Phaedrus says it, pithily,
    The master's is the eye to see:--
    I add the lover's, as for me.

    "Depend upon yourself alone,"
    Has to a common proverb grown.
  'Tis thus confirm'd in Aesop's way:--
  The larks to build their nests are seen
  Among the wheat-crops young and green;
          That is to say,
  What time all things, dame Nature heeding,
  Betake themselves to love and breeding--
      The monstrous whales and sharks,
        Beneath the briny flood,
        The tigers in the wood,
      And in the fields, the larks.
  One she, however, of these last,
  Found more than half the spring-time past
  Without the taste of spring-time pleasures;
    When firmly she set up her will
    That she would be a mother still,
    And resolutely took her measures;--
    First, got herself by Hymen match'd;
    Then built her nest, laid, sat, and hatch'd.
      All went as well as such things could.
      The wheat-crop ripening ere the brood
  Were strong enough to take their flight,
  Aware how perilous their plight,
    The lark went out to search for food,
    And told her young to listen well,
    And keep a constant sentinel.
    'The owner of this field,' said she,
    'Will come, I know, his grain to see.
    Hear all he says; we little birds
    Must shape our conduct by his words.'
      No sooner was the lark away,
    Than came the owner with his son.
    'This wheat is ripe,' said he: 'now run
        And give our friends a call
        To bring their sickles all,
        And help us, great and small,
      To-morrow, at the break of day.'
    The lark, returning, found no harm,
    Except her nest in wild alarm.
    Says one, 'We heard the owner say,
      Go, give our friends a call
    To help, to-morrow, break of day.'
      Replied the lark, 'If that is all,
    We need not be in any fear,
    But only keep an open ear.
    As gay as larks, now eat your victuals.--'
    They ate and slept--the great and littles.
    The dawn arrives, but not the friends;
    The lark soars up, the owner wends
    His usual round to view his land.
    'This grain,' says he, 'ought not to stand.
    Our friends do wrong; and so does he
    Who trusts that friends will friendly be.
    My son, go call our kith and kin
    To help us get our harvest in.'
        This second order made
    The little larks still more afraid.
    'He sent for kindred, mother, by his son;
    The work will now, indeed, be done.'
        'No, darlings; go to sleep;
        Our lowly nest we'll keep.'
  With reason said; for kindred there came none.
    Thus, tired of expectation vain,
    Once more the owner view'd his grain.
    'My son,' said he, 'we're surely fools
    To wait for other people's tools;
    As if one might, for love or pelf,
    Have friends more faithful than himself!
    Engrave this lesson deep, my son.
    And know you now what must be done?
    We must ourselves our sickles bring,
    And, while the larks their matins sing,
    Begin the work; and, on this plan,
    Get in our harvest as we can.'
    This plan the lark no sooner knew,
    Than, 'Now's the time,' she said, 'my chicks;'
    And, taking little time to fix,
        Away they flew;
    All fluttering, soaring, often grounding,
    Decamp'd without a trumpet sounding.

    Your taste has served my work to guide;
    To gain its suffrage I have tried.
    You'd have me shun a care too nice,
    Or beauty at too dear a price,
    Or too much effort, as a vice.
      My taste with yours agrees:
      Such effort cannot please;
    And too much pains about the polish
    Is apt the substance to abolish;
    Not that it would be right or wise
    The graces all to ostracize.
    You love them much when delicate;
    Nor is it left for me to hate.
    As to the scope of Aesop's plan,[3]
    I fail as little as I can.
    If this my rhymed and measured speech
    Availeth not to please or teach,
    I own it not a fault of mine;
    Some unknown reason I assign.
      With little strength endued
      For battles rough and rude,
    Or with Herculean arm to smite,
    I show to vice its foolish plight.
    In this my talent wholly lies;
    Not that it does at all suffice.
    My fable sometimes brings to view
    The face of vanity purblind
    With that of restless envy join'd;
  And life now turns upon these pivots two.
    Such is the silly little frog
    That aped the ox upon her bog.
    A double image sometimes shows
    How vice and folly do oppose
    The ways of virtue and good sense;
    As lambs with wolves so grim and gaunt,
    The silly fly and frugal ant.
  Thus swells my work--a comedy immense--
    Its acts unnumber'd and diverse,
    Its scene the boundless universe.
    Gods, men, and brutes, all play their part
    In fields of nature or of art,
    And Jupiter among the rest.
    Here comes the god who's wont to bear
    Jove's frequent errands to the fair,
      With winged heels and haste;
    But other work's in hand to-day.

    A man that labour'd in the wood
    Had lost his honest livelihood;
          That is to say,
      His axe was gone astray.
      He had no tools to spare;
      This wholly earn'd his fare.
      Without a hope beside,
      He sat him down and cried,
    'Alas, my axe! where can it be?
    O Jove! but send it back to me,
    And it shall strike good blows for thee.'
    His prayer in high Olympus heard,
    Swift Mercury started at the word.
    'Your axe must not be lost,' said he:
    'Now, will you know it when you see?
    An axe I found upon the road.'
    With that an axe of gold he show'd.
    'Is't this?' The woodman answer'd, 'Nay.'
    An axe of silver, bright and gay,
    Refused the honest woodman too.
    At last the finder brought to view
    An axe of iron, steel, and wood.
    'That's mine,' he said, in joyful mood;
    'With that I'll quite contented be.'
    The god replied, 'I give the three,
    As due reward of honesty.'
    This luck when neighbouring choppers knew,
    They lost their axes, not a few,
    And sent their prayers to Jupiter
    So fast, he knew not which to hear.
    His winged son, however, sent
    With gold and silver axes, went.
    Each would have thought himself a fool
    Not to have own'd the richest tool.
    But Mercury promptly gave, instead
    Of it, a blow upon the head.
    With simple truth to be contented,
    Is surest not to be repented;
      But still there are who would
      With evil trap the good,--
      Whose cunning is but stupid,
      For Jove is never dupèd.

    An iron pot proposed
      To an earthen pot a journey.
    The latter was opposed,
      Expressing the concern he
    Had felt about the danger
    Of going out a ranger.
    He thought the kitchen hearth
    The safest place on earth
    For one so very brittle.
    'For thee, who art a kettle,
    And hast a tougher skin,
    There's nought to keep thee in.'
    'I'll be thy body-guard,'
      Replied the iron pot;
    'If anything that's hard
      Should threaten thee a jot,
    Between you I will go,
    And save thee from the blow.'
      This offer him persuaded.
      The iron pot paraded
      Himself as guard and guide
      Close at his cousin's side.
      Now, in their tripod way,
      They hobble as they may;
      And eke together bolt
      At every little jolt,--
      Which gives the crockery pain;
        But presently his comrade hits
        So hard, he dashes him to bits,
      Before he can complain.

  Take care that you associate
  With equals only, lest your fate
  Between these pots should find its mate.

  A little fish will grow,
    If life be spared, a great;
  But yet to let him go,
    And for his growing wait,
  May not be very wise,
    As 'tis not sure your bait
  Will catch him when of size.
  Upon a river bank, a fisher took
  A tiny troutling from his hook.
  Said he, ''Twill serve to count, at least,
  As the beginning of my feast;
  And so I'll put it with the rest.'
      This little fish, thus caught,
      His clemency besought.
  'What will your honour do with me?
  I'm not a mouthful, as you see.
  Pray let me grow to be a trout,
  And then come here and fish me out.
  Some alderman, who likes things nice,
  Will buy me then at any price.
  But now, a hundred such you'll have to fish,
  To make a single good-for-nothing dish.'
    'Well, well, be it so,' replied the fisher,
    'My little fish, who play the preacher,
    The frying-pan must be your lot,
    Although, no doubt, you like it not:
    I fry the fry that can be got.'

      In some things, men of sense
    Prefer the present to the future tense.

    Some beast with horns did gore
      The lion; and that sovereign dread,
    Resolved to suffer so no more,
      Straight banish'd from his realm, 'tis said,
    All sorts of beasts with horns--
    Rams, bulls, goats, stags, and unicorns.
      Such brutes all promptly fled.
  A hare, the shadow of his ears perceiving,
      Could hardly help believing
  That some vile spy for horns would take them,
  And food for accusation make them.
      'Adieu,' said he, 'my neighbour cricket;
      I take my foreign ticket.
        My ears, should I stay here,
        Will turn to horns, I fear;
      And were they shorter than a bird's,
      I fear the effect of words.'
    'These horns!' the cricket answer'd; 'why,
    God made them ears who can deny?'
  'Yes,' said the coward, 'still they'll make them horns,
    And horns, perhaps of unicorns!
      In vain shall I protest,
    With all the learning of the schools:
      My reasons they will send to rest
        In th' Hospital of Fools.'[7]

  A cunning old fox, of plundering habits,
  Great crauncher of fowls, great catcher of rabbits,
  Whom none of his sort had caught in a nap,
  Was finally caught in somebody's trap.
  By luck he escaped, not wholly and hale,
  For the price of his luck was the loss of his tail.
  Escaped in this way, to save his disgrace,
  He thought to get others in similar case.
  One day that the foxes in council were met,
  'Why wear we,' said he, 'this cumbering weight,
  Which sweeps in the dirt wherever it goes?
  Pray tell me its use, if any one knows.
      If the council will take my advice,
      We shall dock off our tails in a trice.'
  'Your advice may be good,' said one on the ground;
  'But, ere I reply, pray turn yourself round.'
  Whereat such a shout from the council was heard,
  Poor bob-tail, confounded, could say not a word.
  To urge the reform would have wasted his breath.
  Long tails were the mode till the day of his death.