Their ruin will involve your doom,
And I'll be left to shade your tomb."
(Iriarte, Literary Fables. Adapted from the translation by John Balfour.)
A SWORD, in famed Toledo wrought,
That, tempered well, had nobly fought
In many a broil, and chieftains slain,
In various skirmishes in Spain;
From sire to son that long had passed,
Was doomed to feel disgrace at last!
Condemned, its owner in a jail.
To be exposed to public sale!
Thus, though oft drawn, by fate's command.
By many a firm and doughty hand,
It passed, by purchase in a lot.
To one its worth who valued not.
An honest quaker, mild of mien.
With whom it dwelt for months, unseen.
But, lo! it chanced one winter's night,
Anxious his kindred to delight.
Some game he ordered to be dressed.
And, as his spouse no spit possessed.
She, without any more ado.
Ran with the sword the lev'ret through.
And by a casual stroke of wit
The sword converted to a spit.
Now while this transmutation passed,
A new-made lord required in haste
