Madam, quoth he, gramercy for your care, But Cato, whom you quoted, you may spare: 'Tis true, a wise and worthy man he seems, And (as you say) gave no belief to dreams: But other men of more authority, And, by the immortal powers! as wise as he, 200 Maintain, with sounder sense, that dreams forebode; For Homer plainly says they come from God. Nor Cato said it: but some modern fool Imposed in Cato's name on boys at school. Believe me, madam, morning dreams foreshow The events of things, and future weal or woe: Some truths are not by reason to be tried, But we have sure experience for our guide. An ancient author, equal with the best, Relates this tale of dreams among the rest. 210 Two friends or brothers, with devout intent, On some far pilgrimage together went. It happen'd so that, when the sun was down, They just arrived by twilight at a town; That day had been the baiting of a bull, 'Twas at a feast, and every inn so full, That no void room in chamber, or on ground, And but one sorry bed was to be found: And that so little it would hold but one, Though till this hour they never lay alone. 220 So were they forced to part; one staid behind, His fellow sought what lodging he could find: At last he found a stall where oxen stood, And that he rather chose than lie abroad. 'Twas in a farther yard without a door; But, for his ease, well litter'd was the floor. His fellow, who the narrow bed had kept, Was weary, and without a rocker slept: Supine he snored; but in the dead of night He dream'd his friend appear'd before his sight, 230 Who, with a ghastly look and doleful cry, Said, Help me, brother, or this night I die: Arise, and help, before all help be vain, Or in an ox's stall I shall be slain. Roused from his rest, he waken'd in a start, Shivering with horror, and with aching heart; At length to cure himself by reason tries; 'Tis but a dream, and what are dreams but lies? So thinking, changed his side, and closed his eyes. His dream returns; his friend appears again: 240 The murderers come, now help, or I am slain: 'Twas but a vision still, and visions are but vain. He dream'd the third: but now his friend appear'd Pale, naked, pierced with wounds, with blood besmear'd: Thrice warn'd, awake, said he; relief is late, The deed is done; but thou revenge my fate: Tardy of aid, unseal thy heavy eyes; Awake, and with the dawning day arise: Take to the western gate thy ready way, For by that passage they my corpse convey: 250 My corpse is in a tumbril laid, among The filth and ordure, and enclosed with dung; That cart arrest, and raise a common cry; For sacred hunger of my gold, I die: Then show'd his grisly wound; and last he drew A piteous sigh, and took a long adieu.