Discussing instinctly their love,
And hatching little ones, which move,
Look up, are feather’d, wing’d, leap, and are flown.
Like as their parents—full of joy and glee—
Out on the sun-tipp’d hazel hedge,
Or black-berried thorn, or myrtle, sedge;
Or bounding o’er the fallow plain,
In search of some incumbent grain.
’Tis true their life-time’s short, but still ’tis free.
I love that precipice, of which my rhyme