X.--THE WOLF AND THE LEAN DOG.[11] A troutling, some time since,[12] Endeavour'd vainly to convince A hungry fisherman Of his unfitness for the frying-pan. That controversy made it plain That letting go a good secure, In hope of future gain, Is but imprudence pure. The fisherman had reason good-- The troutling did the best he could-- Both argued for their lives. Now, if my present purpose thrives, I'll prop my former proposition By building on a small addition. A certain wolf, in point of wit The prudent fisher's opposite, A dog once finding far astray, Prepared to take him as his prey. The dog his leanness pled; 'Your lordship, sure,' he said, 'Cannot be very eager To eat a dog so meagre. To wait a little do not grudge: The wedding of my master's only daughter Will cause of fatted calves and fowls a slaughter; And then, as you yourself can judge, I cannot help becoming fatter.' The wolf, believing, waived the matter, And so, some days therefrom, Return'd with sole design to see If fat enough his dog might be. The rogue was now at home: He saw the hunter through the fence. 'My friend,' said he, 'please wait; I'll be with you a moment hence, And fetch our porter of the gate.' This porter was a dog immense, That left to wolves no future tense. Suspicion gave our wolf a jog,-- It might not be so safely tamper'd. 'My service to your porter dog,' Was his reply, as off he scamper'd. His legs proved better than his head, And saved him life to learn his trade. [11] Aesop. [12] _A troutling_.--See Book V., Fable III.--Translator. XI.--NOTHING TOO MUCH.[13] Look where we will throughout creation, We look in vain for moderation. There is a certain golden mean, Which Nature's sovereign Lord, I ween, Design'd the path of all forever. Doth one pursue it? Never. E'en things which by their nature bless, Are turn'd to curses by excess. The grain, best gift of Ceres fair, Green waving in the genial air, By overgrowth exhausts the soil; By superfluity of leaves Defrauds the treasure of its sheaves, And mocks the busy farmer's toil. Not less redundant is the tree, So sweet a thing is luxury. The grain within due bounds to keep, Their Maker licenses the sheep The leaves excessive to retrench. In troops they spread across the plain, And, nibbling down the hapless grain, Contrive to spoil it, root and branch. So, then, with, licence from on high, The wolves are sent on sheep to prey; The whole the greedy gluttons slay; Or, if they don't, they try. Next, men are sent on wolves to take The vengeance now condign: In turn the same abuse they make Of this behest divine.