To run is nothing ; we must timely start.
The hare and tortoise here shall teach the art.
“Let’s bet,” the tortoise said, “my clever spark,
Which, you or I, the first shall gain that mark.”
“The first ? what, are you mad ?“ the hare replied
“Take hellebore and purge ; your talk is wide.”
“Well, mad or not, I’ll bet !” the tortoise cried.
The stakes accordingly were paid,
And near the winning-post were laid.
What were the stakes we won’t say in this place,
Nor who it was that judged the race.
The hare had scarce four jumps to make,
Of such as, nearly caught, he’s wont to take ;
Leaving the hounds behind, who then may wait
For the Greek Kalends, roaming until late.
Taking his time, to feast at ease,
And list and sniff whence comes the breeze,
The hare lets now the tortoise go,
Like a grave bishop pacing slow.
And now behold the tortoise gone,
Toiling, hastening slowly on.
The hare the bet but little prized,
And such a victory despised ;
He thought, in his great pride of heart,
’Twas yet too soon for him to start.
So, browsing, resting at his ease,
Oblivious of his bet, he sees
The tortoise the wished goal about to gain,
He sprang like lightning, but he sprang in vain :
The tortoise won just as the hare took flight.
“Well,” she exclaimed, “ good runner, was I right ?
What means your swiftness, yielding thus to me ?
And if you bore your house, what would it be ?”