The king's proud favorite at a beggar threw a stone.
He picked it up as if it had for alms been thrown.
He bore it in his bosom long with bitter ache,
And sought his time revenge with that same stone to take.
One day he heard a street mob's hoarse, commingled cry:
The favorite comes!—but draws no more the admiring eye.
He rides an ass, from all his haughty state disgraced;
And by the rabble's mocking gibes his way is traced.
The stone from out his bosom swift the beggar draws,
And flinging it away, exclaims: "A fool I was!