A noted thief, the kite, Had set a neighbourhood in fright, And raised the clamorous noise Of all the village boys, When, by misfortune,—sad to say,— A nightingale fell in his way.
A man whose credit failed, and what was worse, Who lodged the devil in his purse,— That is to say, lodged nothing there,— By self-suspension in the air Concluded his accounts to square, Since, should he not, he understood,
A man that loved,—and loved his wife,— Still led an almost joyless life. No tender look, nor gracious word, Nor smile, that, coming from a bride, Its object would have deified, Ever told her doting lord
How danger would the gods enrich, If we the vows remembered which It drives us to! But, danger past, Kind Providence is paid the last. No earthly debt is treated so.
From bowers of gods the bees came down to man. On Mount Hymettus, first, they say, They made their home, and stored away The treasures which the zephyrs fan. When men had robbed these daughters of the sky,
A mouse once from an owl's beak fell; I had not have picked it up, I wis; A Brahmin did it: very well; Each country has its prejudice. The mouse, indeed, was sadly bruised.
A block of marble was so fine, To buy it did a sculptor hasten. "What shall my chisel, now It's mine— A god, a table, or a basin?"
A boy who savoured of his school,— A double rogue and double fool,— By youth and by the privilege Which pedants have, by ancient right, To alter reason, and abridge,—