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The Emperor . . . Ah! does he meditate
A vesper dish of plaintive homely snails
Seethed in the Corsican white wine he loves?
No, harmless mollusc, no such carnal wish.
For lo, he thinks with melancholy pangs
How much more pleasant is thy fate than his;
No ferment of regrets, no shattered hopes,
No griefs of exile (lo, thy modest home
Is ever with thee)—thus, in short, he broods.
The Emperor would gladly interchange
His lot with thine, O unambitious snail . . .
(Cetera desunt).
Rudyard Kipling moralizes:—
Fortune's coin is fickle: she spins both heads and tails.
Even in your glory forbear to sneer at snails!
