O thou, whose name to me was still endear'd
E'en when the master's brow was justly fear'd;
I, of thy realm the most inviolate part,
By touch of thy birch-rod ne'er taught to smart,
Give thee what through long years complains of thee
That thou wast not enough a fear to me;
That I, base subject of thy sceptre slow,
Thy ferule's milder sway should only know.
Sooth, in these leaves what faults soe'er thou see,
Thy rod in every case should punish'd be.
Then let this page for me the suffering pay;
Here certainly thy rod may have full play;
Howe'er that rod to me was once too mild,
It may revenge it all on this my child;
Here will thy nail discover where to rage,
And scratch a learned blot across the page.
These which are bad, forsooth, these things are mine;
Would they were better, that they might be thine!
Whate'er they are, these streams their fountain know,
Nile from an unknown fount may proudly go.
Not lightly what one's source may be we deem;
Fountains give name and honour to their stream.
So small--my times perhaps may say of me--
An offspring of no fountain small was he.
Only to say of me may it be thine:
'He was my least indeed--but he was mine!' R. WI.