At fashion's call, with cruel shears,
They cropped poor Tray's superfluous ears;
Twice shrieked the mutilated pup,
Then sniffed and ate the fragments up,
Nor stayed his losses to deplore,
But wagged his tail and roared for more.
Here, without Tupper, we may see
The marrow of philosophy,
The how and where, with natural ease,
To stow away our miseries;
Nor simply to gulp down our pain,
But turn disaster into gain;
And, when her scissors shear our pate,
To batten on the spoils of Fate.