It fits thee well, that lacquer suit, Base flunkey as thou art! Though bright, it never covered brain; Though gilded, ne'er a heart! Rather than wear upon my back Such livery as thine, I'd earn an honest crust, and make The scullion's calling mine."
Three mirrors of the usual sort Were gifted once with power of thought; And as they hung against the wall They felt that they were prophets all. The first, a plate-glass o'er the fire; The next, a concave, standing higher; A portly convex 'tother side Made up the three; and as he eyed His brother mirrors, brilliant each, Thus gave to thought the rein of speech: "Such power as mine who ever saw? If in my face without a flaw Men chance to gaze, they taller seem Than what they are: delightful scheme! I like to elongate the truth; What else but flattery pleases youth? A boy who in my face should scan Will grow as tall as any man!" Says convex; "That is not the case With me; for those who in _my_ face Should chance to look, themselves will find Turned into things of dwarfish kind. To praise mankind is what I hate: What says our neighbour, Master Plate?" The plate-glass then essayed to speak; Said he: "My friends, I never seek So to distort the things I see That none can tell what things they be. I find it more convenient far To show mankind just what they are!" A table the dispute had heard, And asked for leave to say a word. "Agreed," rejoined the glassy crowd: When thus the table spoke aloud: "The virtues which you each would claim As yours, are virtues but in name. You, Concave, lessen what you see, Though well you know 't should larger be. While Convex, aye to flattery prove, Makes mounts of what are mites alone. Plain-spoken Plate, in wrong the least, Would tell a beast it _was_ a beast, Forgetting 'tis not always right To judge from what appears in sight. Your faces ought to blush for shame, And yet you think you're not to blame! You know that men are slow to think, And will of _any_ fountain drink; Who fear their brain's behest to do, So frame their faith from such as you! Judged by the simplest human rules, You are the knaves--and they the fools."
A country dame, to early-rising prone, Two clocks possessed: the one, a rattling Dutch, Seldom aright, though noisy in its tone, With naughty knack of striking two too much. The other was a steady, stately piece, That rang the hour true as the finger told: For many a year 't had kept its corner place; The owner said 'twas worth its weight in gold! One washing-eve, the Dame, to rise at four, Sought early rest, and, capped and gowned, did droop Fast as a church, to judge from nasal snore, That broke the silence with a hoarse hor-hoop: When all at once with fitful start she woke; For that same tinkling Dutchman on the stair Had told the hour of four with clattering stroke, And waked the sleeper ere she was aware. "Odd drat the clock!" she sighed; but, knowing well The cackling thing struck two at least a-head, She turned; and back to such deep slumber fell, But for her snore you might have thought her dead. And so she slept till four o'clock was due, When t'other time-piece truly told the tale; Straightway the drowsy dame to labour flew, And soon the suds went flirting round the pail.