So fit to move a skylark’s mirth,
As what this little son of earth
Hath in his grossness mutter’d.
“Dull fool! to think we sons of air
On man’s low actions waste a care,
His virtues or his vices;
Or soaring on the summer gales
That we should stoop to carry tales
Of him or his devices!
“Mistaken fool! man needs not us