Lying at her defence upon her back,
With her dreadful beak, awhile defers her death,
But by degrees forced down, we part the fray,
And feast upon her.——
————————— Then, for an evening flight,
A tiercel gentle, which I call, my masters,
As he were sent a messenger to the moon,
In such a place flies, as he seems to say,
See me, or see me not! the partridge sprung,
He makes his stoop; but wanting breath, is forced