They bask like grasshoppers, and chirp as loud:
With oil they never even feast their eyes;
The luxury of stockings they despise,
But bare-foot as the crane still march along,
All night in chorus with the screech-owl's song. —Cumberland.
The same.
For famishment direct, and empty fare,
I am your Tithymallus, your Philippides,
Close pictured to the life: for water-drinking,
Your very frog. To fret, and feed on leeks,