(Imagining her tiny freight
A vast addition to the weight),
"I must have pity—and be gone,
Now, master Waggoner, drive on."
Do not admire this Butterfly,
Young reader; I will tell you why:
At first good nature seems a cause,
Why she should merit your applause,
But 'twas conceit, that fill'd her breast:
Her self-importance made a jest
Of what might otherwise have claimed
Your praise,—but now she must be blamed.
Should any case occur when you
May have some friendly act to do;
Give all your feeble aid—as such,
But estimate it not too much.
(Translated from the Polish of Ignace Krasicki.)
THE BIRD-CALL
A MIMIC I knew.
To give him his due.
Was exceeded by none and was equalled by few.
He could bark like a dog;
He could grunt like a hog;
Nay, I really believe, he could croak like a frog.
