Behold it as the donkey of a tipsy costermonger, obedient to go without the gift of expression.

Its behaviour is honourable under a discerning heaven, and there is ever something pathetic in a toilful speechlessness; but it is of dogged attitude in the face of men.

Salt is in it to keep our fleshly grass from putrefaction; poets might proclaim its virtues.

They will not; they are averse.

The only voice it has is the Puritan bray, upon which one must philosophise asinically to unveil the charm.