'One must be poor,' George Eliot said,
'To know the luxury of giving';
So too one really should be dead
To realise the joy of living.
(I'd sooner be—I don't know which—
I'd like to be alive and rich!)
This book may be a Gift-horse too,
And one you surely ought to prize;
If so, I beg you, read it through,
With kindly and uncaptious eyes,
Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan,
And this one doesn't rhyme!
IX
POTPOURRI
There are many more Maxims to which
I would like to accord a front place,
But alas! I have got
To omit a whole lot,
For the lack of available space;
And the rest I am forced to boil down and condense
To the following Essence of Sound without Sense:
Now the Pitcher that journeys too oft
To the Well will get broken at last.
But you'll find it a fact
That, by using some tact,
Such a danger as this can be past.
(There's an obvious way, and a simple, you'll own,
Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let Well alone.)
Half a loafer is never well-bred,
And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing.
And the mice are at play
When the Cat is away,
For a moment, inspecting a King.
(Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Proverbs declare,
It is right to suppose that the King will take care.)
Don't Halloo till you're out of the Wood,
When a Stitch in Good Time will save Nine,
While a Bird in the Hand
Is worth Two, understand,
In the Bush that Needs no Good Wine.
(Tho' the two, if they Can sing but Won't, have been known,
By an accurate aim to be killed with one Stone.)
Never Harness the Cart to the Horse;
Since the latter should be à la carte.
Also, Birds of a Feather
Come Flocking Together,
—Because they can't well Flock Apart.
(You may cast any Bread on the Waters, I think,
But, unless I'm mistaken, you can't make it Sink.)
It is only the Fool who remarks
That there Can't be a Fire without Smoke;
Has he never yet learned
How the gas can be turned
On the best incombustible coke?
(Would you value a man by the checks on his suits,
And forget 'que c'est le premier passbook qui Coutts?')