Classic Poem

VII

Ye old mule that think yourself so fair,
Leave off with craft your beauty to repair,
For it is true without any fable
No man setteth more by riding in your saddle.
Too much travail so do your train appair,
Ye old mule.
With false savours though you deceive the air,
Whoso taste you shall well perceive your lair
Savoureth somewhat of a kappur's stable,
Ye old mule.
Ye must now serve to market and to fair,
All for the burden, for panniers a pair;
For since grey hairs been powdered in your sable,
The thing ye seek for you must yourself enable
To purchase it by payment and by prayer,