But Man, whom Nature formed of milder clay,
With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep; while from her lap
She pours ten thousand delicacies—herbs
And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain
Or beams that gave them birth—shall he, fair form,
Who wears sweet smiles and looks erect on heaven,
E’er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd
And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey,
Blood-stained, deserves to bleed. But you, ye Flocks,