Your taste has always been to me a guide; I've sought in many ways to win your vote: Fastidious cares you often would deride, Forbad me on vain ornament to dote. I think with you an author wastes his days, Who tries with over-care his tale to tell; Yet, it's not wise to banish certain traits Of subtle grace, that you and I love well. With Æsop's aim, I simply do my best; And fail--well, just as little as I can. Try to instruct by reasoning or jest; No fault of mine if no one likes my plan. Rude strength is not by any means my forte; I seek to pelt, with playful ridicule, Folly and vice; and tease the motley fool With stinging missiles--any way, in short; Not having brawny arms, like Hercules. That is my only talent, that I know. I have no strength to stem the angry seas, Or set all honest people in a glow. Sometimes I try to paint in fabled guise, A foolish vanity, with envy blended; Two of life's pivots, mocked at by the wise, In satires long ago, and not yet ended. Such, was the miserable creature, Mean and poor in shape, in feature, That tried to puff herself into an ox. Sometimes I try, by playful paradox, To pair a vice with virtue, folly with good sense, Lambs with gaunt wolves, the ant to match the fly; Everywhere laughing at the fool's expense, I mould my work into a comedy, [Illustration: THE WOODMAN AND MERCURY.] With countless acts, the universe its scene, Boundless as the blue serene. Men, gods, and brutes each play their part, With more or less of truth and art. Jove like the rest--come, Mercury; Ah! look, why there he comes, I see; The messenger who's wont to bear Jove's frequent errands to the fair-- But more of that another day.