The Hack Mule by Tomás de Iriarte

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Full fed and antic, / A Hack Mule pushed / With speed so frantic / Forth from her stable, / That her rider / Scarcely was able / With rein to guide her.

Half our journey / Not long will bide her / In such a race.

But the false jade / Now slacks her pace.

What trouble now?

Go on! Perhaps / The spur will do.

What, no? Then taps / Of this light rod / Or harder raps / From pointed goad.

Both are, I find, / In vain bestowed.

How! out of wind!

With ready heels / She kicks behind, / And bites and squeals.

What a curvette!

She jumps and reels.

You devil's pet, / With hand and foot / We'll try you yet.

Upon her belly / Down she flounders, -- / Here sprawling flat.

A murrain foul / Seize on your soul!

Amen to that!

The Mule, that work begins / With such capers, / Is not the mule for me; / And, whene'er I see / That any author vapors / Too much of his intent, -- / At once, I say, "Beware!

Good friend, pray have a care / Of this mule's predicament. "

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