Perhaps you think, to serve my ends, These statements I refute, When I admit that these dear friends Were parties to a suit? But ’twas a friendly action, for Good PYTHIAS, as you see, Fought merely as executor, And DAMON as trustee. They laughed to think, as through the throng Of suitors sad they passed, That they, who’d lived and loved so long, Should go to law at last. The junior briefs they kindly let Two sucking counsel hold; These learned persons never yet Had fingered suitors’ gold. But though the happy suitors two Were friendly as could be, Not so the junior counsel who Were earning maiden fee. They too, till then, were friends. At school They’d done each other’s sums, And under Oxford’s gentle rule Had been the closest chums. But now they met with scowl and grin In every public place, And often snapped their fingers in Each other’s learned face. It almost ended in a fight When they on path or stair Met face to face. They made it quite A personal affair. And when at length the case was called (It came on rather late), Spectators really were appalled To see their deadly hate. One junior rose—with eyeballs tense, And swollen frontal veins: To all his powers of eloquence He gave the fullest reins. His argument was novel—for A verdict he relied On blackening the junior Upon the other side. “Oh,” said the Judge, in robe and fur, “The matter in dispute To arbitration pray refer— This is a friendly suit.” And PYTHIAS, in merry mood, Digged DAMON in the side; And DAMON, tickled with the feud, With other digs replied. But oh! those deadly counsel twain, Who were such friends before, Were never reconciled again— They quarrelled more and more. At length it happened that they met On Alpine heights one day, And thus they paid each one his debt, Their fury had its way— They seized each other in a trice, With scorn and hatred filled, And, falling from a precipice, They, both of them, were killed. MY DREAM THE other night, from cares exempt, I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt? I dreamt that somehow I had come To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom— Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice: Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice: Where right is wrong and wrong is right— Where white is black and black is white. Where babies, much to their surprise, Are born astonishingly wise; With every Science on their lips, And Art at all their finger-tips. For, as their nurses dandle them They crow binomial theorem, With views (it seems absurd to us) On differential calculus. But though a babe, as I have said, Is born with learning in his head, He must forget it, if he can, Before he calls himself a man.