It licketh the hand that fears no harm,
And when hunger pinches its fretful maw,
It fawns with an eager glee.
ANTISTROPHE II.
But it grows with the years; and soon reveals
The fount of fierceness whence it came:
And, loathing the food of the tame,
It roams abroad, and feasts in the fold,
On feasts forbidden, and stains the floor
Of the house that nursed it with gore.