Puss, with a pilfer’d scrap, was seen,
Swearing beneath the pent-house shed:
For, like some fav’rites, she was bent
On all things, yet with none content;
And still, whate’er her place or diet,
She could not pick her bone, in quiet.
Sometimes, new milk Grimalkin stole,
And sometimes—over-set the bowl!
For over eagerness will prove,
Oft times the bane of what we love;