A story-writer of our sort Historifies, in short, Of one that may be reckoned A Rodilard the Second,— The Alexander of the cats, The Attila, the scourge of rats, Whose fierce and whiskered head Among the latter spread, A league around, its dread;
I hate that saying, old and savage, “It’s nothing but a woman drowning.” That’s much, I say. What grief more keen should have edge Than loss of her, of all our joys the crowning? Thus much suggests the fable I am borrowing.
When Nature angrily turned out Those plagues, the spider and the gout,— “Do you see,” said she, “those huts so meanly built, These palaces so grand and richly gilt? By mutual agreement fix Your choice of dwellings; or if not,