Your sty is not a place for me.
Should I go through that narrow door,
My feathers might be soil’d or tore;
Or scented with unsav’ry fumes:
And what am I without my plumes?”
The much offended Sow replies,
And turns asquint her narrow eyes,
“Sir, you’re incorrigibly vain,
To value thus a shining train;
For when the northern wind shall blow,