If you are powerful, wrong or right, The court will change your black to white.
There is a legend of the Levantine, That once a certain Rat, weary of strife, Retired into a Dutch cheese, calm, serene, Far from the bustle and the cares of life. In solitude extreme, dim stretching far and wide, The hermit dwelt in all tranquillity, And worked so well with feet and teeth inside, Shelter and food were his in certainty. What need of more? Soon he grew fat with pride; God showers his blessings upon those who pay Their vows to him in faith. There came, one day, A pious deputy, from Ratdom sent, To beg some trilling alms, because their town-- Ratopolis--was leaguered with intent Most deadly; they, without a crown, Had been obliged to fly,--so indigent Was the assailed republic. Little ask The scared ambassadors--the succour sure, In a few days: the loan was no hard task. "My friend," the hermit cried. "I can endure No more the things of this world. What have I, A poor recluse, to give you, but a prayer? I yield you patiently unto His care." And then he shut the door, quite tranquilly.
Who do I mean, then, by this selfish Rat? A monk?--no, sir; a dervish is more fat. A monk, where'er in this world he may be, Is always full, you know, of charity.
One day, on his stilt legs, walked, here and there, A Heron, with long neck and searching beak; Along a river side he came to seek. The water was transparent, the day fair, Gossip, the Carp, was gambolling in the stream: The Pike, her neighbour, was in spirits, too. The Heron had no trouble, it would seem, But to approach the bank, and snap the two; But he resolved for better appetite To calmly wait:--he had his stated hours: He lived by rule. At last, there came in sight Some Tench, that exercised their finny powers. They pleased him not, and so he waited still, Scornful, like rat of whom good Horace wrote. "What! eat a tench?--I, who can take my fill, Munch such poor trash?"--he'll sing another note. The tench refused, a gudgeon next came by: "A pretty dish for such as me, forsooth! The gods forgive me if I eat such fry: I'll never open beak for that:"--and yet, in truth, He opened for far less. The fish no more Returned. Then Hunger came;--thus ends my tale. He who'd rejected dishes half a score, Was forced, at last, to snap a paltry snail.