Began to wash and trim herself;
And from the stinking pool she run
To dry her carcase in the sun;
And rubb’d her sides against a tree:
And now, as clean as hogs can be,
With cautious air and doubtful breast,
The glitt’ring Peacock thus address’d:
“Sir, I, a homely rural Swine,
Can boast of nothing fair nor fine,
No dainties in our troughs appear,