Book X: The Shepherd and the King

Two demons at their pleasure share our being--The cause of Reason from her homestead fleeing;No heart but on their altars kindleth flames.If you demand their purposes and names,The one is Love, the other is Ambition.Of far the greater share this takes possession,For even into love it enters,Which I might prove; but now my story centresUpon a shepherd clothed with lofty powers:The tale belongs to older times than ours.

A king observed a flock, wide spreadUpon the plains, most admirably fed,O'erpaying largely, as return'd the years,Their shepherd's care, by harvests for his shears.Such pleasure in this man the monarch took,--'Thou meritest,' said he, 'to wield a crookO'er higher flock than this; and my esteemO'er men now makes thee judge supreme.'Behold our shepherd, scales in hand,Although a hermit and a wolf or two,Besides his flock and dogs, were all he knew!Well stock'd with sense, all else upon demandWould come of course, and did, we understand.His neighbour hermit came to him to say,'Am I awake? Is this no dream, I pray?You favourite! you great! Beware of kings,Their favours are but slippery things,Dear-bought; to mount the heights to which they callIs but to court a more illustrious fall.You little know to what this lure beguiles.My friend, I say, Beware!' The other smiles.The hermit adds, 'See howThe court has marr'd your wisdom even now!That purblind traveller I seem to see,Who, having lost his whip, by strange mistake,Took for a better one a snake;But, while he thank'd his stars, brimful of glee,Outcried a passenger, "God shield your breast!Why, man, for life, throw down that treacherous pest,That snake!"--"It is my whip."--"A snake, I say:What selfish end could prompt my warning, pray?Think you to keep your prize?"--"And wherefore not?My whip was worn; I've found another new:This counsel grave from envy springs in you."--The stubborn wight would not believe a jot,Till warm and lithe the serpent grew,And, striking with his venom, slewThe man almost upon the spot.And as to you, I dare predictThat something worse will soon afflict.''Indeed? What worse than death, prophetic hermit?''Perhaps, the compound heartache I may term it.'And never was there truer prophecy.Full many a courtier pest, by many a lieContrived, and many a cruel slander,To make the king suspect the judge awryIn both ability and candour.Cabals were raised, and dark conspiracies,Of men that felt aggrieved by his decrees.'With wealth of ours he hath a palace built,'Said they. The king, astonish'd at his guilt,His ill-got riches ask'd to see.He found but mediocrity,Bespeaking strictest honesty.So much for his magnificence.Anon, his plunder was a hoard immenseOf precious stones that fill'd an iron boxAll fast secur'd by half a score of locks.Himself the coffer oped, and sad surpriseBefell those manufacturers of lies.The open'd lid disclosed no other mattersThan, first, a shepherd's suit in tatters,And then a cap and jacket, pipe and crook,And scrip, mayhap with pebbles from the brook.'O treasure sweet,' said he, 'that never drewThe viper brood of envy's lies on you!I take you back, and leave this palace splendid,As some roused sleeper doth a dream that's ended.Forgive me, sire, this exclamation.In mounting up, my fall I had foreseen,Yet loved the height too well; for who hath been,Of mortal race, devoid of all ambition?'