The Rape of the Trap. A Ballad
'Twas in a land of learning,
The Muse's favourite city,
Such pranks of late
Were play'd by a rat,
As-tempt one to be witty.
All in a college study,
Where books were in great plenty;
This rat would devour
More sense in an hour,
Than I could write-in twenty.
Corporeal food, 'tis granted,
Serves vermin less refined,
Sir But this, a rat of taste,
All other rats surpass'd,
And he prey'd on the food of the mind, Sir.
His breakfast, half the morning
He constantly attended;
And when the bell rung
For evening song,
His dinner scarce was ended!
He spared not even heroics,
On which we poets pride us,
And would make no more
Of King Arthurs, by the score,
Than-all the world beside does.
In books of geography
He made the maps to flutter;
A river or a sea
Was to him a dish of tea;
And a kingdom, bread and butter.
But if some mawkish potion
Might chance to overdose him,
To check its rage,
He took a page
Of logic-to compose him-
A Trap, in haste and anger,
Was brought, you need not doubt on't,
And, such was the gin,
Were a lion once got in,
He could not, I think, get out on't.
With cheese, not books, 'twas baited;
The fact-I'll not belie it-
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poem by William Shenstone
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