Unto Mercy's straight path Jove came back from his wrath, Annulled the Eumenide's oath; Nothing loath. Yet his thunders he threw At the vile mortal crew; And one might have thought That destruction were wrought; But the fact was just this-- The bolts managed to miss. For the Thund'rer's pride With our fear's satisfied. He was father of men, And so he knew when, As papas mortal know too, What distance to throw to. But, with mercy thus treated, Man, with wickedness heated, Grew so vicious, at last, That Jove swore he would cast And crush our weak race, Their Creator's disgrace. But yet he still smiled; For a father his child Strikes with merciful hand. So at last it was planned That god Vulcan should have The duty of sending us men to the grave. With bolts of two sorts Vulcan fills his black courts; And of these two there's one That Heaven throws straight, When it fills up its hate, And the thread of a man's life is done. The other falls only On mountain tops lonely; And this kind alone By great Jupiter's thrown.
A treacherous voice will sometimes call; Hear it, but trust it not at all. Not meaningless the thing I tell, But like the clog of Jean Nivelle. A citizen of Mons, by trade, A Capon, one day, was dismayed, Being summoned, very suddenly, Before his master's Lares; he Disliked that tribunal, the spit (It was a fowl of ready wit). Yet all the folks, their scheme to hide, "Coop, coop, coop, coop," so softly cried. "Your servant; your gross bait is vain; You won't catch me, I say again." All this a Falcon saw, perplexed: What had the silly creature vexed? Instinct, experience, or no, Fowls have no faith in us, I know; And this one, caught with endless trouble, To-morrow in a pot would bubble, Or in a stately dish repose-- Small honour, as the Capon knows. The Falcon the poor creature blamed; "I am astonished! I'm ashamed! You scum! you <i>canaille!</i> how you act! You're half an idiot, that's a fact. I come back to my master's fist, And hunt for him whate'er he list. Why, see, he's at the window, there; You're deaf; he's calling, I declare." "I know too well," the Fowl replied, Not caring for the Falcon's pride: "What does he want to say to me? The cook has got his knife, I see. Would <i>you</i> attend to such a bait? Now, let me fly, or I'm too late; So, cease to mock. Nay, now, good master, That wheedling voice portends disaster! Had you seen at the friendly hearth As many Falcons of good birth As I've seen Capons put to roast, You'd not reproach me with vain boast."