_Ere this, my story's drift you plainly see._ _From such mistake there is no mortal free._ _That obstinate self-lover_ _The human soul doth cover;_ _The mirrors' follies are of others,_ _In which, as all are genuine brothers,_ _Each soul may see to life depicted_ _Itself with just such faults afflicted;_ _And by that charming placid brook,_ _Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book._ [Illustration: THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE] The Dragon with Many Heads. An envoy of the Porte Sublime, As history says, once on a time, Before th' imperial German court Did rather boastfully report, The troops commanded by his master's firman, As being a stronger army than the German: To which replied a Dutch attendant, "Our prince has more than one dependant Who keeps an army at his own expense." The Turk, a man of sense, Rejoin'd, "I am aware What power your emperor's servants share. It brings to mind a tale both strange and true, A thing which once, myself, I chanced to view. I saw come darting through a hedge, Which fortified a rocky ledge, A hydra's hundred heads; and in a trice My blood was turning into ice. But less the harm than terror,-- The body came no nearer; Nor could, unless it had been sunder'd, To parts at least a hundred. While musing deeply on this sight, Another dragon came to light, Whose single head avails To lead a hundred tails: And, seized with juster fright, I saw him pass the hedge,-- Head, body, tails,--a wedge Of living and resistless powers.-- The other was your emperor's force; this ours." [Illustration: THE DRAGON WITH MANY HEADS.] Death and the Woodman A poor wood-chopper, with his fagot load, Whom weight of years, as well as load, oppress'd, Sore groaning in his smoky hut to rest, Trudged wearily along his homeward road. At last his wood upon the ground he throws, And sits him down to think o'er all his woes. To joy a stranger, since his hapless birth, What poorer wretch upon this rolling earth? No bread sometimes, and ne'er a moment's rest; Wife, children, soldiers, landlords, public tax, All wait the swinging of his old, worn axe, And paint the veriest picture of a man unblest. On Death he calls. Forthwith that monarch grim Appears, and asks what he should do for him. "Not much, indeed; a little help I lack-- To put these fagots on my back." _Death ready stands all ills to cure;_ _But let us not his cure invite._ _Than die, 'tis better to endure,--_ _Is both a manly maxim and a right._ [Illustration: DEATH AND THE WOODMAN.] The Hornets and the Bees.