To whom Herbert did cry:
“Stop in and have sup of my wine.”
But the tortoise kept steadily at work
While the hare on the bank still did shirk—
Where drink of the gods held him fast,
Where the cool, dark shadows were cast
And the scent of wild flowers did lurk.
The end came as it should in such case,
For the tortoise, though slow, won the race,
And ’twas Herbert who paid for that supper of game.