Book VIII: The Falcon and the Capon

You often hear a sweet seductive call:If wise, you haste towards it not at all;--And, if you heed my apologue,You act like John de Nivelle's dog.

A capon, citizen of Mans,Was summon'd from a throngTo answer to the village squire,Before tribunal call'd the fire.The matter to disguiseThe kitchen sheriff wiseCried, 'Biddy--Biddy--Biddy!--'But not a moment did he--This Norman and a half--The smooth official trust.'Your bait,' said he, 'is dust,And I'm too old for chaff.'Meantime, a falcon, on his perch,Observed the flight and search.In man, by instinct or experience,The capons have so little confidence,That this was not without much trouble caught,Though for a splendid supper sought.To lie, the morrow night,In brilliant candle-light,Supinely on a dish'Midst viands, fowl, and fish,With all the ease that heart could wish--This honour, from his master kind,The fowl would gladly have declined.Outcried the bird of chase,As in the weeds he eyed the skulker's face,'Why, what a stupid, blockhead race!--Such witless, brainless foolsMight well defy the schools.For me, I understandTo chase at wordThe swiftest bird,Aloft, o'er sea or land;At slightest beck,Returning quickTo perch upon my master's hand.There, at his window he appears--He waits thee--hasten--hast no ears?''Ah! that I have,' the fowl replied;'But what from master might betide?Or cook, with cleaver at his side?Return you may for such a call,But let me fly their fatal hall;And spare your mirth at my expense:Whate'er I lack, 'tis not the senseTo know that all this sweet-toned breathIs spent to lure me to my death.If you had seen upon the spitAs many of the falcons roastAs I have of the capon host,You would, not thus reproach my wit.'