THE IVY AND THE THYME.
"How I do pity you, indeed,
My sorry, little trembling weed!"
Once said the ivy to the thyme.
"You always creep and never climb.
Whilst scarce above the ground you rise,
I mount this oak and seek the skies:—
The old oak which Jove cherishes,
My comrade is."
"I know," the thyme replied, "'tis true,
In height I can't dispute with you,
But my support is all my own,
While you could never stand alone.
'Tis by that tree you mount so high;
Alone you could not climb at all;
But in your feebleness would fall,
And creep e'en lower than I."
Attend ye authors who would seek
By learned Latin, or by Greek,
To climb aloft in prose or rhyme:—
Whate'er you do,
Keep well in view,
These words of wisdom of the thyme.