IN the Egyptian well of thy folly, O Sclavonian,
Thou hast shown me unguardedly the direct ray of wisdom.
I never received it from my father whom thou murderedst,
Nor delivered in the proverbs of any more antient sage,
That the pillars which point to hatred point also to contempt.
When thy slaves would flatter thee, thou art deceived, not flattered;
Their songs admire thee, and people admire their songs,
But thou art as far as ever from admiration.
’Tis the flowers they wear in their bosom that breathe so sweetly,
’Tis not the heart within; the careless heart lies sleeping,
A hollow melon on a sunny bank.
The head of the peacock is the head of the serpent,
And the finest of his feathers are trailed in ordure.