And wax, too, if your fancy’s that way bent.”
Whacks of a different sort the sly rogue meant.
Off starts the wily Fox, in merry trim,
And Bruin blindly follows after him.
“If you have luck,” thought Reynard, with a titter,
“I guess you’ll find our honey rather bitter.”
When they at length reached Goodman Joiner’s yard,
The joy that Bruin felt he might have spared.
But hope, it seems, by some eternal rule,
Beguiles the wisest as the merest fool.