This was the man, whom (as I told before)
Nature and custom so swift of foot had made,
He never rested, but ran evermore.
And with his coming he did use his trade;
A heap of names within his cloak he bare,
And in the river did them all unlade;
Or, to say truth, away he cast them all
Into this stream, which Lethe we do call.
This prodigal old wretch no sooner came
Unto this cursed river's barren bank,
But desperately, without all fear of blame,
Or caring to deserve reward or thank,
He hurl'd therein full many a precious name
Where millions soon unto the bottom sank:
Hardly in every thousand one was found
That was not in the gulf quite lost and drown'd;
Yet all about great store of birds there flew,
As vultures, carrion crows, and chattering pies,
And many more of sundry kinds and hue,
Making lewd harmony with their loud cries:
These, when the careless wretch the treasure threw
Into the stream, did all they could devise,
What with their talons some, and some with beak,
To save these names, but found themselves too weak.
For ever as they thought themselves to raise,
To bear away those names of good renown,
The weight of them so heavy downward weighs,
They in the stream were driven to cast them down,
Only two swans sustained so great a prize,
In spite of him who sought them all to drown: