A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin
(so strict the watch of dogs had been)
hid little but his bones,
once met a mastiff dog astray.
A prouder, fatter sleeker Tray
no human mortal owns.
Sir Wolf, in famished plight,
would fain have made a ration
upon his fat relation:
but then he first must fight;
and well the dog seemed able
to save from wolfish table
his carcass snug and tight.

So then in civil conversation
the wolf expressed his admiration
of Tray’s fine case. Said Tray politely,

“Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly;
quit but the woods, advised by me:
for all your fellows here, I see,
are shabby wrenches, lean and gaunt,
belike to die of haggard want.
With such a pack, of course it follows,
one fights for every bit he swallows.
Come then with me, and share 
on equal terms our princely fare.”

“But what with you
has one to do?”
Inquires the wolf. “Light work indeed,”
replies the dog: “you only need 
to bark a little now and then
to chase off duns and beggar-men,
to fawn on friends that come or go forth,
your master please and so forth;
for which you have to eat 
all sorts of well-cooked meat– 
cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes–
besides unnumbered fond caresses.”

The wolf, by force of appetite
accepts the terms outright, tears glisten in his eyes;
but faring on he spies
a galled spot on the mastiff’s neck.
“What’s that?” he cries. “Oh, nothing but a speck.”
“A speck?” — “Ay, ay: ‘t is not enough to pain me:
perhaps the collar’s mark by which they chain me.”

“Chain! chain you! What! run you not, then 
just where you please and when?”
“Not always sir; but what of that?”
“Enough for me, to spoil your fat!
It ought to be a precious price
which could to servile chains entice;
for me, I’ll shun them while I’ve wit.”
So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet.