While in his cruel way,
    The pirate plucked his prey,
  Upon himself the net was sprung. 
    “O Fowler,” prayed he in the hawkish tongue,
    “Release me in thy clemency! 
  I never did a wrong to thee.” 
  The man replied, “’Tis true;
  And did the Lark to you?”

  Phoebus and Boreas

  Old Boreas and the Sun, one day,
  Espied a traveller on his way,
  Whose dress did happily provide
  Against whatever might betide. 
  The time was autumn, when, indeed,
  All prudent travellers take heed. 
  The rains that then the sunshine dash,
  And Iris with her splendid sash,
  Warn one who does not like to soak
  To wear abroad a good thick coat. 
  Our man was therefore well bedight
  With double mantle, strong and tight. 
  “This fellow,” said the Wind, “has meant
  To guard from every ill event;
  But little does he wot that I
    Can blow him such a blast
    That, not a button fast,
  His cloak shall cleave the sky. 
  Come, here’s a pleasant game.  Sir Sun! 
    Wilt play?” Said Phoebus, “Done! 
    We’ll bet between us here
    Which first will take the gear
    From off this cavalier. 
    Begin, and shut away
    The brightness of my ray.” 
  “Enough.”  Our blower, on the bet,
    Swelled out his pursy form
    With all the stuff for storm—­
  The thunder, hail, and drenching wet,
  And all the fury he could muster;
  Then, with a very demon’s bluster,
  He whistled, whirled, and splashed,
  And down the torrents dashed,
    Full many a roof uptearing
      He never did before,
    Full many a vessel bearing
      To wreck upon the shore—­
    And all to doff a single cloak. 
    But vain the furious stroke;
      The traveller was stout,
      And kept the tempest out,
      Defied the hurricane,
      Defied the pelting rain;
  And as the fiercer roared the blast,
  His cloak the tighter held he fast. 
  The Sun broke out, to win the bet;
    He caused the clouds to disappear,
    Refreshed and warmed the cavalier,
  And through his mantle made him sweat,
    Till off it came, of course,
  In less than half an hour;
  And yet the Sun saved half his power—­
    So much does mildness more than force.

  The Stag and the Vine

  A Stag, by favour of a Vine,
  Which grew where suns most genial shine,
  And formed a thick and matted bower
  Which might have turned a summer shower,
  Was saved by ruinous assault. 
  The hunters thought their dogs at fault,
  And called them off.  In danger now no more
    The Stag, a thankless wretch and vile,
  Began to browse his benefactress o’er. 
    The hunters listening the while,
  The rustling heard, came back,
  With all their yelping pack,
    And seized him in that very place.