  “Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluk’d, she eat; —Milton. ON Aetna’s isle Dis Pluto drove His devil-wagon one fine day, And passing through fair Enna’s grove Beheld Proserpina at play; He asked, “Will you not take a ride?” “You’re very kind,” the maid replied, And stepped into his turn-out swell; And that was how she went to hell. For Pluto, whipping up his team, Sped on toward Tartarus in mirth, And when opposed by Cyane’s stream, He took a short-cut through the earth. Nor paused, nor drew his rein before He heard Cerberus’ welcome roar, And sniffed the smell of singeing soul By which he knew he’d reached his goal. Ceres, Proserpina’s mamma, Was almost crazed with grief and fear; (As to Proserpina’s papa, His name I never chanced to hear), She cursed for all that she was worth The crops and fruits of Mother Earth; “You’ll bear no fruit,” she told the Ground, “Until my Prossie has been found!” Jove, who beheld the farmer’s need, And saw the season’s crops all fail, Said, “This is Cereous, indeed, That fellow Dis should be in jail!” “I think,” said Juno, “’twere as well— It does no good to give him hell;” And so it might have been decreed But for one small pomegranate seed. In Hades Ceres’ daughter sweet Was offered luscious bread and jam, But she was much too cross to eat And even scorned the deviled ham; Until at last she made a slip And swallowed a pomegranate pip; Now, they who eat in hell—alack! To earth may never more come back. The Moral is—don’t take a chance Joy-riding with a strange chauffeur, Remember this sad circumstance Or you will get in trouble sure. If you must go—don’t go alone, The devil hates a chaperone. So mind the pips and look alive— Dis Pluto often goes to drive! |
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