Two Friends, in want, resolved to sell A Bear-skin, though the Bear was well, And still alive. The Furrier paid Them willingly; the bargain's made. It was the King of Bears, they said: They'd kill him in an hour or two, And what more could they hope to do? "The merchant has not such a skin, A guarantee through thick and thin, To fence from e'en the keenest cold With warm, soft, pliant fold on fold: Better to make two cloaks than one." The bargain's made, the business done, The Bear, in two days, was to die That they agreed on, presently. They found the Bear, who, at full trot, Came down upon them, raging hot. The men were thunder-struck; soon done With bargain-making, how they run! Life against money: they are mute. One climbs a tree, to shun the brute; The other, cold as marble, lies Upon his stomach--shuts his eyes; For he has heard that Bears, instead Of eating fear to touch the dead. The trap deceives the foolish Bear: He sees the body lying there, Suspects a trick, turns, smells, and sniffs, With many nuzzling cautious whiffs. "He's dead," said he, "and rather high;" Then seeks the forest that's hard by. The merchant, from the tree descending Quickly, to his companion's lending The aid he needs. "A wondrous sight, To think you've only had a fright. But where's his skin?--and did he say Aught in your ear, as there you lay? For he came, as I plainly saw, And turned you over with his paw." "He said, 'Another time, at least, Before you sell, first kill the beast."
Jupiter had a farm to give away; Mercury told the world the chosen day. The people came to offer, rough they were, And listened grimly. One said it was bare And stubborn land; another half agreed. While they thus haggled, churlishly indeed, One bolder than the rest--but wiser?--no-- Consents to take it, if Jove only grant The climate that he wishes; he will plant, And sow, and reap, if but the heat and cold May come and go, like slaves, as they are told. The seasons wait his nod: the wet and dry Obey his bidding from a servile sky. Jove grants his wish--our foolish fellow sways His sceptre bravely--rains and blows for days; Makes his own climate just as he may please: His neighbours, no more than Antipodes, Share his good weather. Still as well they fare; Their barns are teeming full; but his art bare. The next year quite a change; another way He sets the seasons, watching day by day: Still, there's some flaw--his crops are thin and poor, While loaded waggons crowd his neighbour's door. What can he do?--he falls before Jove's throne, Confesses all his folly: he alone Has been to blame. Jove, with much gentleness, Like a mild master, pities his distress. It is agreed that Providence is kind, And knows far better than a human mind What's good for us, and calmly bids us do it: We seldom see our way till we are through it.