Sometimes he trots as if he told the steps, With gentle majesty, and modest pride; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps, As who would say, lo! thus my strength is tried, And thus I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by. What recketh he his rider's angry stir, His flattering holla, or his _Stand, I say_? What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur? For rich caparisons, or trappings gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. Look, when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, His art with nature's workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed; So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone. Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlock shag and long, Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide; High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong; Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide; Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back." Alas! his only riders now are the rain and a sordid harness. The least utterance of the wretchedest voice makes him stop and become a fixture. His loves were in existence at the time the old sign, fifty miles hence, was painted. His nostrils drink nothing but what they cannot help--the water out of an old tub. Not all the hounds in the world could make his ears attain any eminence. His mane is scratchy and lax. The same great poet who wrote the triumphal verses for him and his loves, has written their living epitaph:-- "The poor jades Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips, The gum down roping from their pale dead eyes; And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless." _K. Henry V, Act 1._ There is a song called the "High-mettled Racer," describing the progress of a favourite horse's life, from its time of vigour and glory, down to its furnishing food for the dogs. It is not as good as Shakespeare; but it will do to those who are half as kind as he. We defy anybody to read that song, or be in the habit of singing it or hearing it sung, and treat horses as they are sometimes treated. So much good may an author do, who is in earnest, and does not go in a pedantic way to work.