[XV].--DEATH AND THE UNFORTUNATE.[[19]]
A poor unfortunate, from day to day,
Call'd Death to take him from this world away.
'O Death' he said, 'to me how fair thy form!
Come quick, and end for me life's cruel storm.'
Death heard, and with a ghastly grin,
Knock'd at his door, and enter'd in
'Take out this object from my sight!'
The poor man loudly cried.
'Its dreadful looks I can't abide;
O stay him, stay him' let him come no nigher;
O Death! O Death! I pray thee to retire!'
A gentleman of note
In Rome, Maecenas,[[20]] somewhere wrote:--
"Make me the poorest wretch that begs,
Sore, hungry, crippled, clothed in rags,
In hopeless impotence of arms and legs;
Provided, after all, you give
The one sweet liberty to live:
I'll ask of Death no greater favour
Than just to stay away for ever."
[[19]] Aesop.
[[20]] Maecenas.--Seneca's Epistles, CI.
[XVI].--DEATH AND THE WOODMAN.[[21]]
A poor wood-chopper, with his fagot load,
Whom weight of years, as well as load, oppress'd,
Sore groaning in his smoky hut to rest,
Trudged wearily along his homeward road.
At last his wood upon the ground he throws,
And sits him down to think o'er all his woes.
To joy a stranger, since his hapless birth,
What poorer wretch upon this rolling earth?
No bread sometimes, and ne'er a moment's rest;
Wife, children, soldiers, landlords, public tax,
All wait the swinging of his old, worn axe,
And paint the veriest picture of a man unblest.
On Death he calls. Forthwith that monarch grim
Appears, and asks what he should do for him.
'Not much, indeed; a little help I lack--
To put these fagots on my back.'
Death ready stands all ills to cure;
But let us not his cure invite.
Than die, 'tis better to endure,--
Is both a manly maxim and a right.
[[21]] Aesop: it is also in Corrozet's fables.
[XVII].--THE MAN BETWEEN TWO AGES, AND HIS TWO MISTRESSES.[[22]]
A man of middle age, whose hair
Was bordering on the grey,
Began to turn his thoughts and care
The matrimonial way.
By virtue of his ready,
A store of choices had he
Of ladies bent to suit his taste;
On which account he made no haste.
To court well was no trifling art.
Two widows chiefly gain'd his heart;
The one yet green, the other more mature,
Who found for nature's wane in art a cure.
These dames, amidst their joking and caressing
The man they long'd to wed,
Would sometimes set themselves to dressing
His party-colour'd head.
Each aiming to assimilate
Her lover to her own estate,
The older piecemeal stole
The black hair from his poll,
While eke, with fingers light,
The young one stole the white.
Between them both, as if by scald,
His head was changed from grey to bald.
'For these,' he said, 'your gentle pranks,
I owe you, ladies, many thanks.
By being thus well shaved,
I less have lost than saved.
Of Hymen, yet, no news at hand,
I do assure ye.
By what I've lost, I understand
It is in your way,
Not mine, that I must pass on.
Thanks, ladies, for the lesson.'
[[22]] Phaedrus, II.2: Aesop.