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(Imagining her tiny freight

A vast addition to the weight),

"I must have pity—and be gone,

Now, master Waggoner, drive on."

Do not admire this Butterfly,

Young reader; I will tell you why:

At first good nature seems a cause,

Why she should merit your applause,

But 'twas conceit, that fill'd her breast:

Her self-importance made a jest

Of what might otherwise have claimed

Your praise,—but now she must be blamed.

Should any case occur when you

May have some friendly act to do;

Give all your feeble aid—as such,

But estimate it not too much.

(Translated from the Polish of Ignace Krasicki.)

THE BIRD-CALL

MIMIC I knew.

To give him his due.

He could bark like a dog;

He could grunt like a hog;