Classic Poem

‘Let each his discontent reveal:
To yon sour dog I first appeal.’

‘Hard is my lot,’ the hound replies;
‘On what fleet nerves the greyhound flies!
While I, with weary steps and slow,
O'er plains and vales and mountains go:
The morning sees my chase begun,
Nor ends it till the setting sun.’

‘When,’ says the greyhound, ‘I pursue,
My game is lost, or caught in view;
Beyond my sight the prey's secure:
The hound is slow but always sure.
And had I his sagacious scent,
Jove ne'er had heard my discontent.