Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use Of needful discipline, in due degree. Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce, Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree. This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be, Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands, And Learning's help be used for infamie, By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands, In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands. XV. But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam, All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm, And cackling chorus with the human scream; Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem, That falsely lets the fierce besieger in, Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win. XVI. No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;-- Alas! his parent dear is far aloof, And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies, Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof, Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, Or, whilst he labors, weaves a fancy-woof, Dreaming he sees his home,--his Phelim smile;-- Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while! XVII. Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time, When first the scholar lists in Learning's train, And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb, Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain, From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane, Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell, For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain, Another weepeth over chilblains fell, Always upon the heel, yet never to be well! XVIII. Anon a third, for his delicious root, Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit, So soon is human violence afoot, So hardly is the harmless biter bit! Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan, Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit, Alack,--mischance comes seldomtimes alone, But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one. XIX. For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, Smites his scald-head, that is already sore,-- Superfluous wound,--such is Misfortune's rub! Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, That still, with backward fist, he strives to dry; Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er, His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky. XX. So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, And with his natural untender knack, By new distress, bids former grievance cease, Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback, That sets the mournful visage all awrack; Yet soon the childish countenance will shine Even as thorough storms the soonest slack, For grief and beef in adverse ways incline, This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine. XXI.