قراءة كتاب Food for the Mind Or, A New Riddle-book
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 4
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What though I have a hundred eyes,
Which my beholders may surprise,
Yet I could never see:
What if I fine and gay appear,
And sometimes gold and silver wear,
I'm slav'd by industry.
Both male and female me admire,
Or for my service or attire;
And I while young am priz'd.
But when I into years am grown,
And with hard labour quite worn down,
I am by both despis'd.
There was a thing a full month old,
When Adam was no more;
But 'ere that thing was five weeks old,
Adam was years five score.
Tho' you seem of me fond—for my safety provide,
And when you walk out take me close by your side;
Yet you oft use me ill, which I take in good part,
Nor e'er murmur or sigh though I'm stabb'd to the heart.
What being's most despis'd by man,
And does him all the good he can;
Who bore the greatest Prince on earth,
That gave to righteousness new birth;
Who does sometimes o'er death prevail,
And health restore when doctors fail.
We dwell in cottages of straw,
And labour much for little gains;
Sweet meat from us our masters draw,
And then with death reward our pains.
Great virtues have I,
There's none can deny,
And to this I shall mention an odd one;
When apply'd to the tail,
'Tis seldom I fail
To make a good boy of a bad one.
Two twins we are, and let it not surprise,
Alike in ev'ry feature, shape and size;
We're square or round, of brass or iron made,
Sometimes of wood, yet useful found in trade:
But to conclude, for all our daily pains,
We by the neck are often hung in chains.
A head and body large I have,
Stomach and bowels too;
One winding gut of mighty length,
Where all my food goes through;
But what's more strange, my food I take
In at the lower end;
And all, just like a drunken rake,
Out at my mouth I send.
What force and strength could not get through,
I with a gentle touch can do;
And many in the streets would stand,
Were I not as a friend at hand.
Homer of old, as stories tell,
His Iliad put in a nut-shell;
But did you know what I conceal,—
Suppose a kingdom, common weal,
At stake,—Here all the springs are found,
Which set the wheel a whirling round.
In me a thousand mischiefs lie,
A thousand pleasures I supply;
In me are bid affairs of state.
In me the secrets of the great;
In me the merchant lays his dust,
In me the tradesman puts his trust;
But hold—my being to explore,
Know I'm inanimate—no more.
