That with soft roe pursues his watery way:[[132]]
This, slain by hunters, yields his shaggy hide;[[133]]
That, caught by fishers, is on Sundays cried.—[[134]]
But each contented with his humble sphere,
40
Moves unambitious through the circling year;
Nor e’er forgets the fortune of his race,
Nor pines to quit, or strives to change his place.
Ah! who has seen the mailed lobster rise,
Clap her broad wings, and soaring claim the skies?[[135]]