To foster it tenderly with meat and drink
Of alle dainties that thou canst bethink,
And keep it all so cleanly as thou may;
Although the cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet had this bird, by twenty thousand fold,
Lever in a forest, both wild and cold,
Go eatë wormës, and such wretchedness,
For ever this bird will make it his business
T'escape out of his cage when that he may :
His liberty the bird desireth aye.

Let take a cat, and foster her with milk
And tender flesh, and make her couch of silk,
And let her see a mouse go by the wall,
Anon she weiveth milk, and flesh, and all,
And every dainty that is in that house,
Such appetite hath she to eat the mouse.
So, here hath kind her domination,

And appetite drives out discretion.

This Phoebus, which that thought upon no guile
Deceived was for all his jollity

For besides him another haddë she

A man of little reputation,

Nought worth to Phoebus in comparison,
And so befell when Phoebus was absent
His wife anon hath for her lover sent.

This white crow that hung aye in the cage
Beheld them meet and said never a word;
And when that home was come Phoebus the lord,

This crowe sung "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!"

"What? bird," quoth Phoebus, "what song sing'st thou now?

Wert thou not wont so merrily to sing,
That to my heart it was a rejoicing

To hear thy voice? alas! what song is this?"
"My lord," quoth he, "I singë not amiss :
Phoebus," quoth he, " for all thy worthiness,
For all thy beauty, and all thy gentleness,
For all thy song, for all thy minstrelsy,
For all thy watching, bleared is thine eye.”

How that his wife was false to him,
To his great shame and his great villainy;
And told him oft he saw it with his eyen.
This Phoebus gan awayward for to wrien;
Him thought his woeful heartë burst in two,
His bow he bent and set therein a flo,
And in his ire he hath his wife slain ;
This is th' effect, there is no more to sayn.
For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy,
Both harp and lute, gitérn and psaltery;
And eke he brake his arrows and his bow;
And after that thus spake he to the crow.
"Traitor," quoth he, with tongue of scorpion,
"Thou hast me brought to my confusion;
Alas, that I was wrought! why n'ere I dead?
O dearë wife that wert to me so sad,
And eke so true, now liest thou dead
With face pale of hue,

Full guiltëless, that durst I swear y-wis!
O, hasty hand, to do so foul amiss!
O troubled wit, O irë reckëless,
That unadvised smit'st the guiltëless."

And to the crow, "O false thief," said he,
"I will thee quite anon thy falsë tale.
Thou sung whilom like any nightingale,
Now shalt thou, false thief, thy song foregon,
And eke thy white feathers every one,
Nor ever in all thy life shalt thou speak ;
Thus shall men on a traitor be awreak ;
Thou and thine offspring ever shall be black.
Nor ever sweetë noisë shall ye make,
But ever cry against tempést and rain,

In token that through thee my wife is slain."
And to the crow he start, and that anon,
And pull'd his white feathers every one,

And made him black, and reft him all his song,
And eke his speech, and out at door him flung
Unto the devil, which I him betake ;

And for this cause be all crowës black.

A poet of our own times, John G. Saxe, has rendered the same story into verse in his own lively serio-comic fashion. We select from his works, however, the story of Phaethon, son of Apollo.

PHAËTHON; OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

Dan Phaethon so the histories run

Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun,-
Or rather of Phoebus; but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora.

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun," Running, they say,

Trips every day,

(On Sundays and all in a heathenish way,)
All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's ‘shay,'
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means Phoebus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun !
"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,
I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire."
"Then, by my head,"

The youngster said,

"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!
For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box and a dashing drive!”
"Nay, Phaethon, don't, -

I beg you won't,

Just stop a moment and think upon't!

You're quite too young," continued the sage,

"To tend a coach at your tender age!

Besides, you see,

"Twill really be

Your first appearance on any stage!

Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thoroughly riled,'

Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled,'

-

They're not the fellows to draw it mild!

Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day,

So mind and don't be foolish, Pha!"

But the youth was proud,

And swore aloud,

'Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd,

He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed!

In vain the boy was cautioned at large,

He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phoebus felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now and couldn't back out.
So calling Phaethon up in a trice,

He gave the youth a bit of advice;

(A 'stage direction' of which the core is, "Don't use the whip, they're ticklish things,

But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings !)
Mind your eye, and spare your goad,

Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase.
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
Crack-whack

Resounded along the horses' backs!-
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On on they sped as swift as a flash,