Book VII: The Coach and the Fly

Upon a sandy, uphill road,Which naked in the sunshine glow'd,Six lusty horses drew a coach.Dames, monks, and invalids, its load,On foot, outside, at leisure trode.The team, all weary, stopp'd and blow'd:Whereon there did a fly approach,And, with a vastly business air.Cheer'd up the horses with his buzz,--Now pricked them here, now prick'd them there,As neatly as a jockey does,--And thought the while--he knew 'twas so--He made the team and carriage go,--On carriage-pole sometimes alighting--Or driver's nose--and biting.And when the whole did get in motion,Confirm'd and settled in the notion,He took, himself, the total glory,--Flew back and forth in wondrous hurry,And, as he buzz'd about the cattle,Seem'd like a sergeant in a battle,The files and squadrons leading onTo where the victory is won.Thus charged with all the commonweal,This single fly began to feelResponsibility too great,And cares, a grievous crushing weight;And made complaint that none would aidThe horses up the tedious hill--The monk his prayers at leisure said--Fine time to pray!--the dames, at will,Were singing songs--not greatly needed!Thus in their ears he sharply sang,And notes of indignation ran,--Notes, after all, not greatly heeded.Erelong the coach was on the top:'Now,' said the fly, 'my hearties, stopAnd breathe;--I've got you up the hill;And Messrs. Horses, let me say,I need not ask you if you willA proper compensation pay.'

Thus certain ever-bustling noddiesAre seen in every great affair;Important, swelling, busy-bodies,And bores 'tis easier to bearThan chase them from their needless care.