The Ape





There is an ape in Paris,

To which was given a wife:

Like many a one that marries,

This ape, in brutal strife,

Soon beat her out of life.

Their infant cries,--perhaps not fed,--

But cries, I ween, in vain;

The father laughs: his wife is dead,

And he has other loves again,

Which he will also beat, I think,--

Return'd from tavern drown'd in drink.



_For aught that's good, you need not look_

_Among the imitative tribe;_

_A monkey be it, or what makes a book--_

_The worse, I deem--the aping scribe._





The Anting-anting Of Manuelito The Apple Pip Trial Of Lovers facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

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