By streamside sat a shepherd and his love. She plied a fishing rod, but not one fish came near. The shepherd meanwhile tried to lure some with his voice and flute. He played and sang, with otherworldly tunefulness, this song:
O citizens of silver waters,
Leave your naiads in their grottoes
For a face that’s thrice as charming!
Fear no hurting, fear no harming,
Fear you not to be imprisoned:
Though cruel to men, to fish she isn’t.
In a pool that’s overbrimming
With delights you will go swimming.
Happiness to those who dare
To place themselves in Annie’s care!
This eloquence was ineffectual, alas; his audience was deaf as well as mute.
His fine words wasted, spent like spume upon the air, he now resorted to a net. He tossed it in, and pulled it out—and lay a school of fish at his love’s feet.
O kings! The hearts of people are like fish: they aren’t by rhetoric and reasons won. Brute force alone convinces everyone.