[Illustration: THE SHEPHERD AND THE SEA.]
Beside his fold, and free from every care, A Shepherd, Amphitrite's neighbour, lived for years; Small was his fortune, yet while skies were fair, He was contented, vexed by cares nor fears. At last the treasures cast upon the shore Tempted the man; he bartered flock and fold, And sent forth ships to bring him back the more; But tempests sank the vessels and the gold. Once more he went to watch the silly sheep, No longer master as he had been long, When his own flocks he used to ward and keep, And poets called him Tircis in their song; Now he was Pierrot, and that was all. After some time he, once more well to do, Had flocks again to answer to his call; One day when winds were low, and vessels drew Safely towards the shore and home, the Shepherd stood Upon the sunny cliff: "Fair nymphs," he cried, "Seek some one else, I pray you be so good; <i>Ma foi</i>, you don't catch me with any tide."
This story is not merely meant to please; It's sober truth, I say, and serves to show That pence are better if all safe, you know, Than pounds of promises; when once at ease, Remain content, and closely shut your ears To Circe's wiles, resist her wanton smiles. Ambition and the Sea, avoid them both, They're full of miseries and racking fears; For one who wins there's twenty thousand don't. Rely on that; the winds and thieves are loth To lose their prey (and trust to them)--they won't.
Each one's his faults, to which he still holds fast, And neither shame nor fear can cure the man; 'Tis <i>apropos</i> of this (my usual plan), I give a story, for example, from the past. A follower of Bacchus hurt his purse, His health, his mind, and still grew each day worse; Such people, ere they've run one-half their course, Drain all their fortune for their mad expenses. One day this fellow, by the wine o'erthrown, Had in a bottle left his senses; His shrewd wife shut him all alone In a dark tomb, till the dull fume Might from his brains evaporate. He woke and found the place all gloom, A shroud upon him cold and damp, Upon the pall a funeral lamp. "What's this?" said he; "my wife's a widow, then!" On that the wife, dressed like a Fury, came, Mask'd, and with voice disguised, into the den, And brought the wretched sot, in hopes to tame, Some boiling gruel fit for Lucifer. The sot no longer doubted he was dead-- A citizen of Pluto's--could he err? "And who are you?" unto the ghost he said. "I'm Satan's steward," said the wife, "and serve the food For those within this black and dismal place." The sot replied, with comical grimace, Not taking any time to think, "And don't you also bring the drink?"