Pale as death hast thou become, But take comfort, thou’rt at home; Warm as by the household hearth Lie we under German earth. Many others, who fell lame, Home again, alas! ne’er came, Though they yearningly implored,-- O have pity, gracious Lord! 5. RASCALITY. Rich people only can be won By open, barefaced flattery; Money is flat, my worthy son, And needs must flatly flatter’d be. The box of incense swing with zeal Before all worshipp’d golden calves: In dust and mire with meekness kneel, And, above all, ne’er praise by halves. The price of bread this year is high, Fine words we lavish all in vain; Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try, And earn a bellyful again. 6. RETROSPECT. The pearl for the first, and the case for the second,-- O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d, But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82] The beam that he clung to, that stretch’d o’er the current Beneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent, But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved. We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours, They buried him under a grave of May flowers, But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved. O prudent wert thou, thus early in striving To ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,-- But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved. Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over; Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,-- But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved. For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d, With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,-- But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved. 7. IMPERFECTION. Nothing is perfect in this world of ours, The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers; Methinks the angels, who for our protection Dwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection. The tulip has no scent. The saying is: Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz; Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may be Would have in time brought forth a thumping baby. The haughty peacock has but ugly feet; A woman may be witty and discreet, And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary, Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary. The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween, Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’en The marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus; Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us). In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes, As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times; Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis, And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis. The fairest star that in the heavens has birth, When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth; Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces, And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.