Tho’ all the cote my sorrow see,
No dove will help me with a pea:
Hob’s field they robb’d a month together,
I never hurt a single feather;
The lark, whom I secure to rest
(I slew the snake that robb’d her nest),
Will not a little worm supply;
But would rejoice to see me die.
No crow invites me to a treat,
Tho’ what I kill’d he often eat.