Or chaunting soft a pretty tale,
To please my neighbours of the vale;
Perhaps we gratitude may want,
Because you are too arrogant:
Your worth, display’d with all your skill,
Lies chiefly in omitting ill;
And only then for want of power
To seize the dove you would devour.
There’s not a lark that flies, but knows
You long to grasp her in your claws.