THE lover to the crafty devil said:- 'Tis crooked this, you see, and I am led To wish it otherwise; go, make it straight; A perfect line: no turn, nor twist, nor plait. Away to work, be quick, fly, hasten, run; The demon fancied it could soon be done; No time he lost, but set it in the press, And tried to manage it with great success; The massy hammer, kept beneath the deep, Made no impression: he as well might sleep; Howe'er he beat: whatever charm he used:-- 'Twas still the same; obedience it refused. His time and labour constantly were lost; Vain proved each effort: mystick skill was crossed; The wind, or rain, or fog, or frost, or snow, Had no effect: still circular 'twould go. The more he tried, the ringlet less inclined To drop the curvature so closely twined. How's this? said Satan, never have I seen Such stubborn stuff wherever I have been; The shades below no demon can produce, That could divine what here would prove of use: 'Twould puzzle hell to break the curling spring, And make a line direct of such a thing. ONE morn the devil to the other went: Said he, to give thee up I'll be content; If solely thou wilt openly declare What 'tis I hold, for truly I despair; I'm victus I confess, and can't succeed: No doubt the thing's impossible decreed. FRIEND Satan, said the lover, you are wrong; Despondency should not to you belong, At least so soon:--what you desire to know Is not the only one that's found to grow; Still many more companions it has got, And others could be taken from the spot.