I've flies myself of each design,
No book is better filled than mine.
But when I reach the river's side
Alone, for none of these I wish,
No victim to a foolish pride,
My object is to capture fish;
Let me confess, then, since you ask it—
A worm it is which fills my basket!
O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,
On which with scorn the haughty look,