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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345257" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Miller, His Son, And Their Ass</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THO' to Antiquity the Praise we yield <br>Of pleasing Arts; and Fable's earli'st Field <br>Own to be fruitful Greece; yet not so clean <br>Those Ears were reap'd, but still there's some to glean; <br>And from the Lands of vast Invention come <br>Daily new Authors, with Discov'ries home. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This curious Piece, which I shall now impart, <br>Fell from Malherbe, a Master in his Art, <br>To Racan, fill'd with like poetick Fire, <br>Both tuneful Servants of Apollo's Choir: <br>Rivals and Heirs to the Horatian Lyre: <br>Who meeting him, one Day, free and alone, <br>(For still their Thoughts were to each other known) <br>Thus ask'd his Aid–Some useful Counsel give, <br>Thou who, by living long, hast learnt to live; <br>Whose Observation nothing can escape; <br>Tell me, how I my course of Life shall shape: <br>To something I wou'd fix ere't be too late. <br>You know my Birth, my Talents, my Estate: <br>Shall I with these content, all Search resign, <br>And to the Country my Desires confine? <br>Or in the Court, or Camp, advancement gain? <br>The World's a mixture of Delight and Pain: <br>Tho' rough it seems, there's Pleasure in the Wars, <br>And Hymen's Joys are not without their Cares. <br>I need not ask, to what my Genius tends, <br>But wou'd content the World, the Court, my Friends. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Please all the World (in haste) Malherbe replies? <br>How vain th' Attempt will prove in him, that tries, <br>Learn from a Fable, I have somewhere found, <br>Before I answer all that you propound. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>A Miller and his Son (the Father old, <br>The Boy about some fifteen Years had told) <br>Designed their Ass to sell, and for the Fair, <br>Some distance off, accordingly prepare. <br>But lest she in the walk should lose her Flesh, <br>And not appear, for Sale, so full and fresh, <br>Her Feet together ty'd; between them two <br>They heav'd her up; and on the Rusticks go: <br>Till those, who met them bearing thus the Ass, <br>Cry'd, Are these Fools about to act a Farce? <br>Surely the Beast (howe'er it seem to be) <br>Is not the greatest Ass of all the Three. <br>The Miller in their Mirth his Folly finds, <br>And down he sets her, and again unbinds; <br>And tho' her grumbling shew'd, she lik'd much more <br>The lazy way, she travell'd in before, <br>He minds her not; but up the Boy he sets <br>Upon her Back, and on the Crupper gets. <br>Thus on they jog, when of Three Men that pass'd, <br>The eldest thinking Age to be disgrac'd, <br>Call'd to the Youth, ho! you, young Man for shame! <br>Come down, lest Passengers your Manners blame, <br>And say, it ill becomes your tender Years <br>To ride before a Grandsire with grey Hairs. <br>Truly, the Gentlemen are in the right, <br>The Miller cries, and makes the Boy alight; <br>Then forward slides himself into his place, <br>And with a Mind content renews his pace: <br>But much he had not gain'd upon his way, <br>Before a Troop of Damsels, neat and gay, <br>(Partial to Youth) to one another cry'd, <br>See, how with walking by that Dotard's side, <br>The Boy is tir'd; whilst with a Prelate's state <br>He rides alone, and dangling in the Seat, <br>Hangs like a Calf thrown up, across the Beast. <br>The Miller, thinking to have spoiled that Jest, <br>Reply'd, he was too Old for Veal to pass, <br>But after more on him, and on his Ass, <br>He stands convinc'd, and takes his Son again <br>To ride at ease himself, still next the Mane. <br>Yet ere he'd thirty Paces borne the Lad, <br>The next they met, cry'd--Are these Fellows mad! <br>Have they no Pity thus t'o'erload the Jade! <br>Sure, at the Fair, they for her Skin may trade. <br>See, how's she spent, and sinks beneath their strokes! <br>The Miller, whom this most of all provokes, <br>Swears by his Cap, he shews his want of Brains, <br>Who thus to please the World, bestows his Pains. <br>Howe'er we'll try, if this way't may be done; <br>And off he comes, and fetches down his Son. <br>Behind they walk, and now the Creature drive, <br>But cou'd no better in their Purpose thrive; <br>Nor scape a Fellow's Censure, whom they meet, <br>That cries, to spare the Ass they break their Feet; <br>And whilst unladen at her ease she goes, <br>Trudge in the Dirt, and batter out their Shooes; <br>As if to burthen her they were afraid, <br>And Men for Beasts, not Beasts for Men were made. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Proverb right, the Cart before the Horse. <br>The Miller, finding things grow worse and worse, <br>Cries out, I am an Ass, it is agreed, <br>And so are all, who wou'd in this succeed. <br>Hereafter, tho' Reproof or Praise I find, <br>I'll neither heed, but follow my own Mind, <br>Take my own Counsel, how my Beast to sell. <br>This he resolv'd, and did it, and did well. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>For you, Sir, Follow Love, the Court, the War; <br>Obtain the Crosier, or the City's Furr; <br>Live single all your Days, or take a Wife; <br>Trust me, a Censure waits each state of Life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Kingsmill+Finch">Anne Kingsmill Finch</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345257" data-title="A Miller, His Son, And Their Ass de Anne Kingsmill Finch" data-description="THO' to Antiquity the Praise we yield 
Of pleasing Arts; and Fable's earli'st Field 
Own to be fruitful Greece; yet not so clean 
Those Ears were reap'd, but still there's some to glean; 
And from the Lands of vast Invention come 
Daily new Author..."></div>
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