Page:An argosy of fables.djvu/406

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Happier than any of the Seven Sages.
His neighbour, on the other hand, whose wealth
Imposed on him eternal watchfulness,
(This was a great Financier), lost his health,
Sang little and slept less.
At daybreak, if he fell into a doze,
The Cobbler's piping brought it to a close;
Until at last the poor Rich Man complained
That Providential Care
Had not made Sleep a saleable affair,
Like meat or drink or aught by Money gained.
He sent for him whose song
Had worn him out so long:
"Now tell me. Master Gregory," he cried,
"What do you make a year?" "My faith," replied
The Cobbler with a smile,
"It is not, Sir, my style
To count like that; I scarce can look ahead
From week to week enough, if without fear
Of actual want, I can get through the year:
Each day provides me bread."
"Well, well, what do you earn then by the day?"
"Now more, now less; the mischief of it is
(And decent would our gains be but for this),
There are so many days that we must lay
Our work aside; they ruin us with fêtes,
Saints' Days, that is:—and Master Parson prates
Of some new Saint in every Sermon now."
The Rich Man smiled at this simplicity.