The unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies. Aesop, in Rhyme by Aesop (ready player one ebook .txt) 📖
- Author: Aesop
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Mortals bring down upon their head
The very miseries most they dread.
The only son of a rich knight
In hunting daily took delight.
The father living in alarm,
Lest he should come to any harm,
Dream'd that he saw him on the ground,
Rent with the lion's fatal wound.
The youth, allow'd to hunt no more,
Impatiently confinement bore.
Remarking, one unlucky day,
In the fine chamber where he lay,
A lion painted on the wall,
"Thou art," he cried, "the cause of all."
With idle rage the wall he struck,
And in his hand an iron stuck,
Which piercing bones and sinews through,
Fester'd and then a gangrene grew.
And thus the father's ill-tim'd care
Deprived him of his son and heir.
Though life be welcome to the wise,
Death cannot take him by surprise;
Aware that every day and hour
He holds but at the tyrant's power,
That beauty, talents, worth, are vain.
A moment's respite to obtain.
Nothing more known, and yet how rare
It is with courage to prepare
For this inevitable day!
All hope a little more delay.
One who had suffer'd many a year,
And to a century drew near,
At last complain'd, that unawares
Death came, unsettled his affairs:
"My will is not completely made;
A little time," he trembling said,
"A little longer let me live;
Some warning 'tis but fair to give!
My grandson is expected home;
At least pray, let the doctor come."
"Poor helpless driveller!" Death replied,
"Ten years ago thou should'st have died!
Thy friends, thy foes, thyself outliv'd:
Almost an age thou hast surviv'd:
Some who their day had scarce begun.
Others beneath their noon-tide sun—
Time's deepest lines engrave thy brow,
And dost thou hesitate to go?
Idiot, what warning would'st thou have?
One foot already in the grave:
Sight, hearing, feeling, day by day,
Sunk gradual in a long decay.
I blame myself for my neglect;
Thou'st not a moment to expect!"
When failing nature warns, the sage
Sees death a refuge from old age;
And rising from life's lengthened feast,
Willing retires, a sated guest.
When candid critics deign to blame
Their index points the road to fame,
But when dull fools your works admire,
Throw them at once into the fire.
In Rome there dwelt, in days of yore,
A painter deep in graphic lore.
His touch was firm, his outline true,
And every rule full well he knew.
A Mars he painted, meant to show
How far his learned skill could go.
The work complete, he call'd a friend,
On whose good taste he could depend.
The friend was honest, spoke his thought,
And fairly pointed out the fault,
"That overwork'd in every part,
It show'd too much laborious art."
The painter argued for his rules,
And cited maxims from the schools;
Still the judicious critic held
The labor should be more conceal'd.
While they disputed on his stricture,
A coxcomb came to see the picture:
Entering, he cries, "Good heavens, how fine!
The piece, I swear, is quite divine!
The sword, the knot, the belt, the leather,
The steel, the gold, the silk, the feather,
Are perfect nature, all together!"
The painter, reddening with despite,
Whispers, "My friend, by Jove, you're right.
'Tis not enough our art to know,
Till less of it we learn to show;
My picture must be done again
I see, to please discerning men."
A cobbler, who had fix'd his stall
Against a nabob's palace wall,
Work'd merrily as others play,
And sung and whistled all the day.
A prey to many an anxious care,
Less merry was the lord, by far;
And often in the night he thought
It hard, sleep was not to be bought:
And if tow'rds morn he got a doze,
The cobbler troubled his repose.
One day he bid the man attend—
And, "Well," says he, "my honest friend,
How is it that so well you thrive?
You seem the happiest man alive.
Pray, what may be the profit clear,
That you can earn within the year?"
"What in a twelvemonth I can earn,
My lord, was never my concern;
'Tis quite enough," the cobbler said,
"If I can gain my daily bread."
"Take then this note"—'twas twenty pound;
"But sing not with so shrill a sound,
Good man," the generous nabob cries,
"When early to your work you rise;
For then I want to close my eyes."
Delighted to his stall he went:
But now he first felt discontent;
All day he neither work'd nor ate,
For thinking of his happy fate.
At night, when he retir'd to bed,
He plac'd the note beneath his head.
But could not sleep a single wink,
What he should do with it, to think;
And every little noise he heard,
That folks were come to rob him, fear'd.
Living in constant dread to all,
Who did but look towards his stall,
So lean and sallow he was grown,
The man was hardly to be known.
At last he begg'd the lord to see:
"Take back your present, sir," said he,
"Riches, I find, are not for me.
To-morrow I my song renew;
Not less my gratitude to you:
And care henceforward I will take,
My chaunts your slumber do not break."
A man a palfrey long possess'd,
A quiet, serviceable beast;
Spavin'd, indeed, and somewhat blind,
But still his way he well could find;
And if he stumbled now and then,
Was soon upon his feet again.
In short, for many a year, the pack
Had borne him safely on his back.
Till riding out one fatal day,
He overheard some coxcombs say,
"For such a man, 'tis quite a shame,
To mount a horse old, blind, and lame."
"Aye," replied one, "I know a steed
Would nobly carry him indeed;
Young, vigorous, beautiful, and sound;
His like is nowhere to be found."
In evil hour an ear he lent,
To view this boasted courser went:
Unwary on his back he got,
And tried to put him on a trot;
He rear'd and plung'd, and leap'd about,
Till from his seat he shook him out,
Then kicking, pitch'd him o'er his head,
And laid him on the pavement dead.
The vicious creature left at large,
On all his fury would discharge;
This from behind his heels surprise,
Trod under foot, that sprawling lies:
Another, who would seize the reins,
Is bit and mangled for his pains.
But want of nourishment and rest
Will tame at last the fiercest beast;
And rage itself suspends its course,
Exhausted by its proper force.
Light'ning no more his eyes inspire,
No more his nostrils snorted fire;
At bay he stood, fatigu'd and lank,
With flagging ears, and beating flank.
An active jockey, stout and able,
Contracts to bring him to the stable;
Soothes, and his neck begins to pat,
And the corn rattles in his hat;
By hunger drawn, repell'd by fear,
The courser neighs, retires, comes near;
Lur'd with the smell, begins to eat.
The jockey vaulted in the seat:
With vigorous hand the bridle plied,
And stuck the rowels in his side.
Some bounds and curvets still he made,
But soon submissively obey'd.
The horseman who such skill had shown,
Resolv'd to keep him for his own:
Aware that constant work alone
Can keep this wicked spirit down
He night and day is on his back,
To lead him to some new attack,
No road is safe, nor far nor near,
This highwayman is every where.
An honest minister disgrac'd,
(Such are not easily replac'd,)
Found the sweet leisure in his fields,
To virtuous minds retirement yields.
The king, who had his foes believ'd,
The loss of him ere long perceiv'd.
To bring him back again intent,
To his retreat alone he went:
"My friend, you must return with me,"
He said, "your value now I see."
"Forgive me," the Recluse replied;
"Here I determine to abide.
By sad experience well I know,
Were I to court again to go,
And all my best endeavors do,
To serve my country, sir, and you,
Art and intrigue so much prevail,
Again I certainly should fail;
Against your will and approbation,
And the good wishes of the nation,
You'd find yourself compell'd to yield,
And I once more must quit the field."
The honest man, who will not bend
To circumstance, or condescend
To pay his court to knave or fool,
Will never long a nation rule.
A man once had a swan and goose
Among his birds and beasts.
The one was destined for a pet,
The other for a feast.
Sometimes you saw them sailing
Gracefully on the current, side by side,
Sometimes they played a game of tag,
Or plunged into the tide.
One day the master ordered
The cook to kill the goose,
And roast it for his dinner;
It was fat and fit for use.
But the cook had taken a drop too much,
And it had gone to his head;
So when he went out for the goose
He took the swan instead.
He seized the swan fast by the throat,
And would have kill'd it soon:
But the bird saw he was to die,
And he his throat did tune,
And warbled out his farewell lay.
The cook straight dropped his knife
In great surprise, "what! what!" cried he,
"Shall I take the life
Of a musical bird like this?
No, no! it must not be.
So to the garden he shall go back
And ne'er be kill'd by me."
A lynx once met by chance a mole,
Just emerging from his hole.
The lynx with penetrating eye
The beauties of the place did spy,
And asked the mole to take a share
In the fine prospect, rich and rare.
"I've seldom found so good a place.
From this small hill you see a space
Extended far beneath your view,
I like it much; pray do not you?
See now the sun begins to rise,
And with crimson tints the skies.
It spreads all round its genial heat,
And nature now enjoys a treat."
"Well, well!" the mole aloud did cry
"You may see this and more, but I
Can only now before me see,
A very heavy mist." "Truly,
Now," said the lynx, "I clearly see
The difference 'twixt you and me.
My eyes see with perception bright
While your's are always dark as night.
Go to your hold beneath the ground,
While I will range the forest round."
A young mouse of little experience,
Thought to soften an old cat,
And besought her clemency,
By asking for his life at her expense.
Said he, "A mouse, or e'en a rat,
Is not a great charge on the house;
And I shall not starve out the host.
Besides I seldom quit my post,
And when I do a grain of corn
Has served me since I first was born.
Now I am thin, pray let me be,
I'll serve your children yet, you'll see."
Thus to the cat spoke the poor mouse.
The other answered, "You mistake,
When unto me this tone you take;
You might as well talk to the deaf,
As to so old a cat as I,
And through your tricks I spy,
Die! you can go and chatter to the fates,
My children will be fed on better cates."
MORAL.Youth is sanguine, and hopes for all:
Old age is pitiless; so says our moral.
Two real friends lived in Monomotapa,
All that belonged to one was for the other,
And each was unto each a brother.
The people of that country, thus,
Make better friends than among us.
One night when fast asleep,
They each were sound reposing,
The eldest darted from his couch,
And stopped the other's dozing.
He runs to see his friend,
Awakes the slaves, and in the end,
Even his friend is quite alarmed,
And goes to seek the other,
With sword and purse. "My brother,
What can the matter be?
Here I am armed, you see,
Ready with sword to fight for you,
And here is money ready too,
If you have lost in play.
You're even welcome to my handsome slave,
With jet black hair, and eyes so grave."
"No!" said the other, "I need naught,
But ere I slept to-night, I thought,
Being in a trance, that you were sad,
And as
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