One of these fellows claimed a mastery Of eloquence; swore he could make an ass, "A peasant, rustic, booby, d'ye see?-- Yes, gentlemen, a dolt of basest class-- Eloquent. Bring me an ass," he cried, "The veriest ass, and I will teach him so, He shall the cassock wear with proper pride." The Prince resolved the truth of this to know. "I have," he to the rhetorician one day said, "A fine ass from Arcadia in my stable; Make him an orator, if you are able." "Sire, you do what you will." The man they made Accept a sum, for twenty years to teach The ass the proper use of speech; And if he failed, he in the market-place, With halter round his neck, was to be hung; Upon his back his rhetoric books all strung, And asses' ears above his frightened face. One of the courtiers said that he would go And see him at the gibbet; he'd such grace And presence, he'd become the hangman's show; There, above all, his art would come in well: A long-extended speech--with pathos, too-- Would fit the great occasion, so it fell In the one form of those grand Ciceros Vulgarly known as thieves. "Yes, that is true," The other said; "but ere I try, The king, the ass, and you will die." FABLE CXXIII. THE YOUNG WIDOW. A Husband isn't lost without a sigh; We give a groan, then are consoled again; Swift on Time's wings we see our sorrow fly; Fleet Time brings sunshine's pleasure after rain. The widow of a year, the widow of a day, Are very different, I say: One finds it almost hard to trust one's eyes, Or the same face to recognise. One flies the world, the other plans her wiles; In true or untrue sighs the one pours forth her heart, [Illustration: THE YOUNG WIDOW.] Yet the same note they sing, or tears or smiles-- "Quite inconsolable," they say; but, for my part, I don't heed that. This fable shows the truth: Yet why say fiction?--it is sooth.