As Aristippus once, with weary feet,
Pursued his way through polish'd Athens’ street,
Minding no business but his own;
Out rush'd a set of whelps
With sun-burnt scalps,
( Black, red, and brown,)
That nipt his heels, and nibbled at his gown.
While, with his staff, he kept them all at bay
Some yelp'd aloud, some howl'd in dismal strain,
Some wish'd the sage to bark again:—
Even little Shylock seem'd to say,
“Answer us, sir, in your best way:—
“We are,‘ tis true, a snarling crew,
“But with our jaws have gain'd applause,
“And — sir — can worry such as you.”
The sage beheld their spite with steady eye,
And only stopp'd to make this short reply:
“Hark ye, my dogs, I have not learn'd to yelp,
“Nor waste my breath on every lousy whelp;
“Much less, to write, or stain my wholesome page
“In answering puppies — bursting with their rage:
“Hence to your straw!— such contest I disdain:
“Learn this, (‘ tis not amiss )
“For Men I keep a pen,
“For dogs, a cane!”