A man, whose learned worth is known, Has always riches of his own. Simonides, who was the head Of lyric bards, yet wrote for bread, His circuit took through every town In Asia of the first renown, The praise of heroes to rehearse, Who gave him money for his verse. When by this trade much wealth was earn’d, Homewards by shipping he return’d (A Cean born, as some suppose): On board he went, a tempest rose, Which shook th’ old ship to that degree, She founder’d soon as out at sea. Some purses, some their jewels tie About them for a sure supply; But one more curious, ask’d the seer, “Poet, have you got nothing here?” “My all,” says he, “is what I am.”-- On this some few for safety swam (For most o’erburden’d by their goods, Were smother’d in the whelming floods). The spoilers came, the wealth demand, And leave them naked on the strand. It happen’d for the shipwreck’d crew An ancient city was in view, By name Clazomena, in which There lived a scholar learn’d and rich, Who often read, his cares to ease, The verses of Simonides, And was a vast admirer grown Of this great poet, though unknown. Him by his converse when he traced, He with much heartiness embraced, And soon equipp’d the bard anew, With servants, clothes, and money too, The rest benevolence implored, With case depicted on a board: Which when Simonides espied, “I plainly told you all,” he cried, “That all my wealth was in myself; As for your chattels and your pelf, On which ye did so much depend, They’re come to nothing in the end.” XVIII. THE MOUNTAIN IN LABOR. The Mountain labor’d, groaning loud, On which a num’rous gaping crowd Of noodles came to see the sight, When, lo! a mouse was brought to light! This tale’s for men of swagg’ring cast, Whose threats, voluminous and vast, With all their verse and all their prose, Can make but little on’t, God knows. XIX. THE ANT AND THE FLY.