I marvel that a prince[16] is able, At eight, to put the thing in fable; While I, beneath my seventy snows, Forge out, with toil and time, The same in labour'd rhyme, Less striking than his prose. The traits which in his work we meet, A poet, it must be confess'd, Could not have half so well express'd: He bears the palm as more complete. 'Tis mine to sing it to the pipe; But I expect that when the sands Of Time have made my hero ripe, He'll put a trumpet in my hands. My mind but little doth aspire To prophecy; but yet it reads On high, that soon his glorious deeds Full many Homers will require-- Of which this age produces few. But, bidding mysteries adieu, I try my powers upon this fable new. 'Dear wolf,' complain'd a hungry fox, 'A lean chick's meat, or veteran cock's, Is all I get by toil or trick: Of such a living I am sick. With far less risk, you've better cheer; A house you need not venture near, But I must do it, spite of fear. Pray, make me master of your trade. And let me by that means be made The first of all my race that took Fat mutton to his larder's hook: Your kindness shall not be repented.' The wolf quite readily consented. 'I have a brother, lately dead: Go fit his skin to yours,' he said. 'Twas done; and then the wolf proceeded: 'Now mark you well what must be done, The dogs that guard the flock to shun.' The fox the lessons strictly heeded. At first he boggled in his dress; But awkwardness grew less and less, Till perseverance gave success. His education scarce complete, A flock, his scholarship to greet, Came rambling out that way. The new-made wolf his work began, Amidst the heedless nibblers ran, And spread a sore dismay. Such terror did Patroclus[17] spread, When on the Trojan camp and town, Clad in Achilles' armour dread, He valiantly came down. The matrons, maids, and aged men All hurried to the temples then.-- The bleating host now surely thought That fifty wolves were on the spot: Dog, shepherd, sheep, all homeward fled, And left a single sheep in pawn, Which Renard seized when they were gone. But, ere upon his prize he fed, There crow'd a cock near by, and down The scholar threw his prey and gown, That he might run that way the faster-- Forgetting lessons, prize and master. How useless is the art of seeming! Reality, in every station, Is through its cloak at all times gleaming, And bursting out on fit occasion. Young prince, to your unrivall'd wit My muse gives credit, as is fit, For what she here hath labour'd with-- The subject, characters, and pith.