This way and that they pull.  Impatient thou: 
    Pst!  Pst! a jet of nauseous taste
  O’er the assembly sprinklest.  Leave the bough
    And fly the rascals thus disgraced,
  Who stole thy well, and with malicious pleasure
  Now lick their honey’d lips, and feed at leisure.

  See these Bohemians without labour fed! 
    The ant the worst of all the crew—­
  Fly, drone, wasp, beetle too with horned head,
    All of them sharpers thro’ and thro’,
  Idlers the sun drew to thy well apace—­
  None more than she was eager for thy place,

More apt thy face to tickle, toe to tread,
Or nose to pinch, and then to run
Under the shade thine ample belly spread;
Or climb thy leg for ladder; sun
Herself audacious on thy wings, and go
Most insolently o’er thee to and fro.

II.

Now comes a tale that no one should believe. 
In other times, the ancients say,
The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve. 
Thou didst in secret see one day
The ant below the ground her treasure store away.

The wealthy ant was drying in the sun
Her corn the dew had wet by night,
Ere storing it again; and one by one
She filled her sacks as it dried aright. 
Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight,

  Saying:  “’Tis very cold; the bitter bise
    Blows me this way and that to-day. 
  I die of hunger.  Of your riches please
    Fill me my bag, and I’ll repay,
  When summer and its melons come this way.

  “Lend me a little corn.”  Go to, go to! 
    Think you the ant will lend an ear? 
  You are deceived.  Great sacks, but nought for you! 
    “Be off, and scrape some barrel clear! 
  You sing of summer:  starve, for winter’s here!”

  ’Tis thus the ancient fable sings
    To teach us all the prudence ripe
  Of farthing-snatchers, glad to knot the string
    That tie their purses.  May the gripe
  Of colic twist the guts of all such tripe!

  He angers me, this fable-teller does,
    Saying in winter thou dost seek
  Flies, grubs, corn—­thou dost never eat like us! 
    —­Corn!  Couldst thou eat it, with thy beak? 
  Thou hast thy fountain with its honey’d reek.

  To thee what matters winter?  Underground
    Slumber thy children, sheltered; thou
  The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound. 
    Thy body, fallen from the bough,
  Crumbles; the questing ant has found thee now.

The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide
A banquet makes; in little bits
She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside,
And stores thee where in wealth she sits: 
Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits.

III.

Here is the tale related duly,
And little resembling the fable, truly! 
Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it. 
It isn’t the story as you would make it! 
Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say,
Who govern the world with the cash-box—­hey?