“The Bull who turn’d his tail so rude,
Meant only not his ear t’ intrude;
And he that spurn’d so fierce the ground
With anguish felt a hornet wound.
The third, the downy turf who prest,
Sought but the sweets of peaceful rest.
But come, to his remote retreat
I’ll guide my royal master’s feet.”
They go; the victim mourns too late
His absent friends and helpless state.