Folly Made Left-Handed

Wit was fairly tired of play;
And the little archer lay
On a grassy bank, one day,
By a gurgling river.
Here, he thought he'd take a nap,
And to guard them from mishap,
In his mantle he would wrap
His golden bow and quiver.

Scarce a moment had he slept,
Ere upon his finger stepped
Some one, who was no adept
In the art of creeping.
Wit was ever quick to feel,
Soon he knew the heavy heel—
Folly came his bow to steal,
While he thought him sleeping.

He arose, and, "now," said he,
"Let my bow and arrows be,
Till their use you learn of me,
Folly, I beseech you!
But, if you would know my art,
And be skilful with the dart,
Let's a moment stand apart,
So that I may teach you."

Folly moved a pace or two;
Wit took aim, and quickly drew—
" Whiz!" the arrow went, and flew,
Fastening in his shoulder.
"Oh!" cried Folly, "Oh! I'm dead!
Wounded both in heart and head!"
"You will live," Wit smiling said,
"To be ages older.

"Banish every vain alarm,
You receive no other harm
Than a useless, palsied arm,
For an hour of fooling.
Hence, of that right hand bereft,
Folly, you must use your left,
A memento of your theft,
And my timely schooling!"

Wisdom saw the war begin
'Twixt the two so near akin,
And she would, by stepping in,
Fain have made them wiser.
But, she was repelled by both,
Who, alike incensed and loth
To be tutored, took an oath
Ever to despise her.