A poor Woodcutter, covered with his load, Bent down with boughs and with a weary age, Groaning and stooping, made his sorrowing stage To reach his smoky cabin; on the road, Worn out with toil and pain, he seeks relief By resting for a while, to brood on grief.-- What pleasure has he had since he was born? In this round world is there one more forlorn? Sometimes no bread, and never, never rest. Creditors, soldiers, taxes, children, wife, The corvée. Such a life! The picture of a miserable man--look east or west. He calls on Death--for Death calls everywhere-- Well,--Death is there. He comes without delay, And asks the groaner if he needs his aid. "Yes," said the Woodman, "help me in my trade. Put up these faggots--then you need not stay." Death is a cure for all, say I, But do not budge from where you are; Better to suffer than to die, Is man's old motto, near and far. [Illustration: DEATH AND THE WOODCUTTER.] FABLE XV. SIMONIDES RESCUED BY THE GODS. Three sorts of persons can't he praised too much: The Gods, the King, and her on whom we doat. So said Malherbe, and well he said, for such Are maxims wise, and worthy of all note. Praise is beguiling, and disliked by none: A lady's favour it has often won. Let's see whate'en the gods have ere this done To those who praised them. Once, the eulogy Of a rough athlete was in verse essayed. Simonides, the ice well broken, made A plunge into a swamp of flattery. The athlete's parents were poor folk unknown; The man mere lump of muscle and of bone-- No merit but his thews, A barren subject for the muse. The poet praised his hero all he could, Then threw him by, as others would. Castor and Pollux bringing on the stage, He points out their example to such men, And to all strugglers in whatever age; Enumerates the places where they fought, And why they vanished from our mortal ken. In fact, two-thirds of all his song was fraught With praise of them, page after page. A Talent had the athlete guaranteed, But when he read he grudged the meed, And gave a third: frank was his jest,-- "Castor and Pollux pay the rest; Celestial pair! they'll see you righted,-- Still I will feast you with the best; Sup with me, you will be delighted; The guests are all select, you'll see, My parents, and friends loved by me; Be thou, too, of the company." Simonides consents, partly, perhaps, in fear To lose, besides his due, the paltry praise. He goes--they revel and discuss the cheer; A merry night prepares for jovial days. A servant enters, tells him at the door Two men would see him, and without delay. He leaves the table, not a bit the more