a bear with whom a piedmontese

had voyaged from the polar seas,

and by whose strange unwieldy gambols

he earned a living in his rambles,

one day, upon his hind legs set,

began to dance a minuet.

at length, being tired, as well he might,

of standing such a time upright,

he to a monkey near advancing,

exclaimed: "what think you of my dancing?"

"really," he said, "ahem!" (i'm sure

this monkey was a connoisseur)

"to praise it, i'd indeed be glad,

only it is so very bad!"

"how!" said the bear, not over pleased,

"surely, your judgment is diseased,

or else you cannot well have seen

my elegance of step and mien;

just look again, and say what graces

you think are wanting in my paces."

"indeed, his taste is quite amazing,"

replied a pig with rapture gazing;

"bravo! encore! well done! sir bear,

by heaven, you trip as light as air;

i vow that paris never knew

a dancer half so fine as you."

with some confusion, bruin heard

such praises by a pig conferred;

he communed with himself a while,

and muttered thus, in altered style:

"i must confess the monkey's blame

made me feel doubtful of my fame;

but since the pigs their praise concede,

my dancing must be bad, indeed!"