The witches' sabbath; all suggested The change of body, and of face; And so in Fate fools still invested. But what of her who made the place? She seeks the golden prize to gain, In gorgeous state, like any parrot; But people jeer and pass. In vain; They all go rushing to the garret. 'Tis custom governs everything. I've often seen, in courts of law, Some stupid barrister, who'll bring Briefs such as clever men ne'er saw. All a mistake: his eyes may glisten; They'll take him for some other man: One unto whom the world will listen. Explain me this, now, if you can. FABLE CXLI. THE COBBLER AND THE BANKER. A Cobbler, who would sing from dawn to dark (A very merry soul to hear and see, As satisfied as all the Seven Wise Men could be), Had for a neighbour, not a paltry clerk, But a great Banker, who could roll in gold: A Crœsus, singing little, sleeping less; Who, if by chance he had the happiness, Just towards morning, to drop off, I'm told, Was by the Cobbler's merry singing woke. Loud he complain'd that Heaven did not keep For sale, in market-places, soothing sleep. He sent, then, for the Cobbler ('twas no joke):-- "What, Gregory, do you earn in the half-year?" "Half-year, sir!" said the Cobbler, very gaily; "I do not reckon so. I struggle daily For the day's bread, and only hunger fear." "Well, what a day?--what is your profit, man?" "Now more, now less;--the worst thing is those fêtes. Why, without them--and hang their constant dates!-- The living would be tidy--drat the plan! Monsieur the Curé always a fresh saint Stuffs in his sermon every other week." The Banker laughed to hear the fellow speak, And utter with such <i>naïveté</i> his complaint. "I wish," he said, "to mount you on a throne; Here are a hundred crowns, knave--keep them all, They'll serve you well, whatever ill befall." The Cobbler thought he saw before him thrown All money in the earth that had been found. Home went he to conceal it in a vault, Safe from discovery and thieves' assault. There, too, he buried joy,--deep under ground; No singing now: he'd lost his voice from fear. [Illustration: THE COBBLER AND THE BANKER.] His guests were cares, suspicions, vain alarms; All day he watch'd,--at night still dreading harms: If but a cat stirr'd, robbers he could hear. At last the poor fool to his neighbour ran; He had not woke him lately, I'm afraid: "Return my songs and tranquil sleep," he said, "And take your hundred crowns, my generous man." FABLE CXLII. THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE LITTLE RABBIT. A little Rabbit's charming nook A Weasel seized upon one morn; His household gods with him he took, Jane Rabbit's mansion to adorn.