ASPHALION. 
      “They say that soon flit summer-nights away,
    Because all lingering is the summer day: 
    Friend, it is false; for dream on dream have I
    Dreamed, and the dawn still reddens not the sky. 
    How? am I wandering? or does night pass slow?”

    HIS COMRADE. 
      “Asphalion, scout not the sweet summer so. 
    ’Tis not that wilful seasons have gone wrong,
    But care maims slumber, and the nights seem long.”

    ASPHALION. 
      “Didst thou e’er study dreams?  For visions fair
    I saw last night; and fairly thou should’st share
    The wealth I dream of, as the fish I catch. 
    Now, for sheer sense, I reckon few thy match;
    And, for a vision, he whose motherwit
    Is his sole tutor best interprets it. 
    And now we’ve time the matter to discuss: 
    For who could labour, lying here (like us)
    Pillowed on leaves and neighboured by the deep,
    Or sleeping amid thorns no easy sleep? 
    In rich men’s halls the lamps are burning yet;
    But fish come alway to the rich man’s net.”

    COMRADE. 
      “To me the vision of the night relate;
    Speak, and reveal the riddle to thy mate.”

    ASPHALION. 
      “Last evening, as I plied my watery trade,
    (Not on an o’erfull stomach—­we had made
    Betimes a meagre meal, as you can vouch,)
    I fell asleep; and lo!  I seemed to crouch
    Among the boulders, and for fish to wait,
    Still dangling, rod in hand, my vagrant bait. 
    A fat fellow caught it:  (e’en in sleep I’m bound
    To dream of fishing, as of crusts the hound:)
    Fast clung he to the hooks; his blood outwelled;
    Bent with his struggling was the rod I held: 
    I tugged and tugged:  my efforts made me ache: 
    ‘How, with a line thus slight, this monster take?’
    Then gently, just to warn him he was caught,
    I twitched him once; then slacked and then made taut
    My line, for now he offered not to ran;
    A glance soon showed me all my task was done. 
    ’Twas a gold fish, pure metal every inch
    That I had captured.  I began to flinch: 
    ’What if this beauty be the sea-king’s joy,
    Or azure Amphitrite’s treasured toy!’
    With care I disengaged him—­not to rip
    With hasty hook the gilding from his lip: 
    And with a tow-line landed him, and swore
    Never to set my foot on ocean more,
    But with my gold live royally ashore. 
    So I awoke:  and, comrade, lend me now
    Thy wits, for I am troubled for my vow.”

    COMRADE. 
    “Ne’er quake:  you’re pledged to nothing, for no prize
    You gained or gazed on.  Dreams are nought but lies. 
    Yet may this dream bear fruit; if, wide-awake
    And not in dreams, you’ll fish the neighbouring lake. 
    Fish that are meat you’ll there mayhap behold,
    Not die of famine, amid dreams of gold.”