I hate your misplaced eloquence, Endless, ill-timed, and without sense; And no fool I detest so bad As an ill-taught and thievish lad, Except his Master; yet the best Of these is a bad neighbour, 'tis confessed. FABLE CLXXVIII. THE CAT AND THE FOX. The Fox and Cat, two saints indeed, To make a pilgrimage agreed: Two artful hypocrites they were,-- Soft-footed, sly, and smooth, and fair. Full many a fowl, and many a cheese, Made up for loss of time and ease. The road was long, and weary too: To shorten it, to talk they flew. For argument drives sleep away, And helps a journey on, they say. The Fox to the Cat says, "My friend, [Illustration: THE CAT AND THE FOX.] To be so clever you pretend; Say what am I? I've in this sack A hundred tricks." "Well, on my back," The other, very timid, said, "I've only one, I'm quite afraid; But that, I hold, is worth a dozen, My enemies to cheat and cozen." Then the dispute began anew, With "So say I!" and "I tell you!" Till, suddenly, some hounds in sight Silenced them soon, as it well might. The Cat cries, "Search your bag, my friend, Or you are lost, you may depend: Choose out your choicest stratagem!" Puss climbed a tree, and baffled them. The Fox a hundred burrows sought: Turned, dodged, and doubled, as he thought, To put the terriers at fault, And shun their rough and rude assault. In every place he tried for shelter, But begged it vainly; helter skelter, The hounds were on the treacherous scent, That still betrayed, where'er he went. At last, as from a hole he started, Two swift dogs on poor Reynard darted; Then came up all the yelping crew, And at his throat at once they flew. Too many schemes spoil everything, We lose our time in settling. Have only one, as wise man should: But let that one be sound and good. FABLE CLXXIX. THE SCULPTOR AND THE STATUE OF JUPITER. A Block of marble shone so white, A Sculptor bought it, and, that night, Said, "Now, my chisel, let's decree: God, tank, or table, shall it be? "We 'll have a god--the dream I clasp; His hand a thunderbolt shall grasp. Tremble, ye monarchs, ere it's hurled! Behold the master of the world!" So well the patient workman wrought In stone the vision of his thought, The people cried at last, "Beseech The gods to grant it power of speech!" Some even dared the crowd to tell That, when the chisel's last blow fell, The Sculptor was the first with dread To turn away his trembling head. The ancient poet's not to blame, For weak man's terror, fear, and shame The gods invented in each age, Abhorring human hate and rage.