[1] The Weasels Live, No More Than Cats, On Terms Of Friendship With The Rats; And, Were It Not That These Through Doors Contrive To Squeeze Too Narrow For Their Foes, The Animals Long-Snouted Would Long Ago Have Routed, And From The Planet Scouted Their Race, As I Suppose. One Year It Did Betide, When They Were Multiplied, An Army Took The Field Of Rats, With Spear And Shield, Whose Crowded Ranks Led On A King Named Ratapon. The Weasels, Too, Their Banner Unfurl'D In Warlike Manner. As Fame Her Trumpet Sounds, The Victory Balanced Well; Enrich'D Were Fallow Grounds Where Slaughter'D Legions Fell; But By Said Trollop'S Tattle, The Loss Of Life In Battle Thinn'D Most The Rattish Race In Almost Every Place; And Finally Their Rout Was Total, Spite Of Stout Artarpax And Psicarpax, And Valiant Meridarpax,[2] Who, Cover'D O'Er With Dust, Long Time Sustain'D Their Host Down Sinking On The Plain. Their Efforts Were In Vain; Fate Ruled That Final Hour, (Inexorable Power!) And So The Captains Fled As Well As Those They Led; The Princes Perish'D All. The Undistinguish'D Small In Certain Holes Found Shelter, In Crowding, Helter-Skelter; But The Nobility Could Not Go In So Free, Who Proudly Had Assumed Each One A Helmet Plumed; We Know Not, Truly, Whether For Honour'S Sake The Feather, Or Foes To Strike With Terror; But, Truly, 'Twas Their Error. Nor Hole, Nor Crack, Nor Crevice Will Let Their Head-Gear In; While Meaner Rats In Bevies An Easy Passage Win; - So That The Shafts Of Fate Do Chiefly Hit The Great. A Feather In The Cap Is Oft A Great Mishap. An Equipage Too Grand Comes Often To A Stand Within A Narrow Place. The Small, Whate'Er The Case, With Ease Slip Through A Strait, Where Larger Folks Must Wait.