Yon num'rous hosts, magnanimous, robust,
And rough with spears, how like the giant race
They move, or like the Centaurs! smiling, next, 210
He ask'd, of all the Gods, who favour'd most
The Mice, and who the Frogs? but, at the last,
Turning toward Minerva, thus he spake.
The Mice, my daughter, need thee; go'st thou not
To aid thy friends the Mice, inmates of thine, 215
Who to thy temple drawn by sav'ry steams
Sacrifical, and day by day refresh'd
With dainties there, dance on thy sacred floor?
So spake the God, and Pallas thus replied.
My father! suffer as they may, the Mice 220
Shall have no aid from me, whom much they wrong,
Marring my wreaths, and plund'ring of their oil
My lamps.—But this, of all their impious deeds,
Offends me most, that they have eaten holes
In my best mantle, which with curious art 225
Divine I wove, light, easy, delicate;
And now, the artificer whom I employ'd
To mend it, clamouring demands a price
Exorbitant, which moves me much to wrath,
For I obtain'd on trust those costly threads, 230
And have not wherewithal to pay th' arrear.
Nor love I more the Frogs, or purpose more
To succour even them, since they not less,
Dolts as they are, and destitute of thought,
Have incommoded me. For when, of late, 235
Returning
