Poor Dobbin, and his fleecy load,
Are roasted in the same.
Had but that miller deigned at home,
His careful watch to keep,
He had not burnt his house, or horse,
Nor roasted both his sheep.
Delighted with the verses, Celestinus hastened to his master on his return home. The philosopher read them with astonishment.
“Boy,” said he, “whence did you steal these verses?”
“I did not steal them, sir.”
“Come, come, boy—they are clearly not your own; tell me who made them for you.”