The Potter’s Luck, II

The while a potter, sitting by the way, Took in his hand a little piece of clay, And from the habit of his life began To furbish it: he was a sad, sick man, Having at home three children, pinched and pale,— Is it a wonder that his heart should fail With such a trouble tugging at the strings? This hunting pleasure of the merry king’s Was not for any man, as you will guess, Being so friendly with his own distress; He knew not how to spend his holiday, But just to keep on working with the clay!