My mother nourish'd me with almonds, figs,
And delicacies of a thousand names.
But diverse as our natures are, in nought
Similar, how, alas! can we be friends? 45
The floods are thine abode, while I partake
With man his sustenance. The basket, stored
With wheaten loaves thrice kneaded, 'scapes not me,
Nor wafer broad, enrich'd with balmy sweets,
Nor ham in slices spread, nor liver wrapt 50
In tunic silver-white, nor curds express'd
From sweetest milk, nor, sweeter still, the full
Honeycomb, coveted by Kings themselves,
Nor aught by skilful cook invented yet
of sauce or seas'ning for delight of man. 55
I am brave also, and shrink not at sound
Of glorious war, but rushing to the van,
Mix with the foremost combatants. No fear
Of man himself shakes me, vast as he is,
But to his bed I steal, and make me sport 60
Nibbling his fingers' end, or with sharp tooth
Fretting his heel so neatly that he sleeps
Profound the while, unconscious of the bite.
Two things, of all that are, appall me most,
The owl and cat. These cause me many a pang. 65
As does the hollow gin insidious, fair
In promises, but in performance foul,
Engine of death! yet most of all I dread
Cats, nimble mousers, who can dart a paw
After
