A close-fist had his money hoarded Beyond the room his till afforded. His avarice aye growing ranker, (Whereby his mind of course grew blanker,) He was perplex'd to choose a banker; For banker he must have, he thought, Or all his heap would come to nought. 'I fear,' said he, 'if kept at home, And other robbers should not come, It might be equal cause of grief That I had proved myself the thief.' The thief! Is to enjoy one's pelf To rob or steal it from one's self? My friend, could but my pity reach you, This lesson I would gladly teach you, That wealth is weal no longer than Diffuse and part with it you can: Without that power, it is a woe. Would you for age keep back its flow? Age buried 'neath its joyless snow? With pains of getting, care of got Consumes the value, every jot, Of gold that one can never spare. To take the load of such a care, Assistants were not very rare. The earth was that which pleased him best. Dismissing thought of all the rest, He with his friend, his trustiest,-- A sort of shovel-secretary,-- Went forth his hoard to bury. Safe done, a few days afterward, The man must look beneath the sward-- When, what a mystery! behold The mine exhausted of its gold! Suspecting, with the best of cause, His friend was privy to his loss, He bade him, in a cautious mood, To come as soon as well he could, For still some other coins he had, Which to the rest he wish'd to add. Expecting thus to get the whole, The friend put back the sum he stole, Then came with all despatch. The other proved an overmatch: Resolved at length to save by spending, His practice thus most wisely mending, The total treasure home he carried-- No longer hoarded it or buried. Chapfallen was the thief, when gone He saw his prospects and his pawn. From this it may be stated, That knaves with ease are cheated. [9] Abstemius. VI.--THE WOLF AND THE SHEPHERDS.[10] A Wolf, replete With humanity sweet, (A trait not much suspected,) On his cruel deeds, The fruit of his needs, Profoundly thus reflected. 'I'm hated,' said he, 'As joint enemy, By hunters, dogs, and clowns. They swear I shall die, And their hue and cry The very thunder drowns. 'My brethren have fled, With price on the head, From England's merry land. King Edgar came out, And put them to rout,[11] With many a deadly band. 'And there's not a squire But blows up the fire By hostile proclamation; Nor a human brat, Dares cry, but that Its mother mocks my nation. 'And all for what? For a sheep with the rot, Or scabby, mangy ass, Or some snarling cur, With less meat than fur, On which I've broken fast!