Till, by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the skies,
They draw kind Pity, moist-eyed goddess, down,
To heal, with balm of sympathy, their woe.
Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care,
Or, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways
And in his mind revolves disastrous deeds
Against th’ unwary wretch. So story tells,
That chanticleer, on dunghill’s top elate,
With haughty step, and watchful eye askance,
Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he