"An author's countless band,
Stalked round Cocytus' brink,
Each bearing in his hand
A glass for holding ink.
"And into casks they drew
The water, strange to say,
As boys suck sweet wine through
An elder-reed in play.
"Quick! o'er them cast the net,
Ere they have time to flee!
Warm welcome ye will get,
So come to Sans-souci!
"Smelt by the king ere long,
He sharpened up his tooth,
And thus addressed the throng
(Full angrily, in truth):
"'The robbers is't we see?
What trade? What land, perchance?'—
'German news-writers we!'—
Enough to make us dance!
"'A wish I long have known
To bid ye stop and dine,
Ere ye by Death were mown,
That brother-in-law of mine.
"'Yet now by Styx I swear,
Whose flood ye would imbibe,
That torments and despair
Shall fill your vermin-tribe!
"'The pitcher seeks the well,
Till broken 'tis one day;
They who for ink would smell,
The penalty must pay.
"'So seize them by their thumbs,
And loosen straight my beast
E'en now he licks his gums,
Impatient for the feast.'—
"How quivered every limb
Beneath the bull-dog's jaws
Their honors baited him,
And he allowed no pause.