The Cat and the Two Sparrows Contemporary with a Sparrow tame There lived a Cat; from tenderest age, Of both, the basket and the cage Had household gods the same. The Bird's sharp beak full oft provoked the Cat, Who play'd in turn, but with a gentle pat, His wee friend sparing with a merry laugh, Not punishing his faults by half. In short, he scrupled much the harm, Should he with points his ferule arm. The Sparrow, less discreet than he, With dagger beak made very free. Sir Cat, a person wise and staid, Excused the warmth with which he play'd: For 'tis full half of friendship's art To take no joke in serious part. Familiar since they saw the light, Mere habit kept their friendship good; Fair play had never turn'd to fight, Till, of their neighbourhood, Another sparrow came to greet Old Ratto grave and Saucy Pete. Between the birds a quarrel rose, And Ratto took his side. "A pretty stranger, with such blows To beat our friend!" he cried. "A neighbour's sparrow eating ours! Not so, by all the feline powers." And quick the stranger he devours. "Now, truly," saith Sir Cat, "I know how sparrows taste by that. Exquisite, tender, delicate!" This thought soon seal'd the other's fate. But hence what moral can I bring? For, lacking that important thing, A fable lacks its finishing: I seem to see of one some trace, But still its shadow mocks my chase. The Sick Stag A Stag, where stags abounded, Fell sick and was surrounded Forthwith by comrades kind, All--pressing to assist, Or see, their friend, at least, And ease his anxious mind-- An irksome multitude. "Ah, sirs!" the sick was fain to cry, "Pray leave me here to die, As others do, in solitude. Pray, let your kind attentions cease, Till death my spirit shall release." But comforters are not so sent: On duty sad full long intent, When Heaven pleased, they went: But not without a friendly glass; That is to say, they cropp'd the grass And leaves which in that quarter grew, From which the sick his pittance drew. By kindness thus compell'd to fast, He died for want of food at last. _The men take off no trifling dole Who heal the body, or the soul. Alas the times! do what we will, They have their payment, cure or kill._ The Wolf and the Fox