Not a single jot wiser, than when they sat out.
Yet their warm bosoms still for the dear secret panted,
And this friend, and that, supplied all else they wanted.
So, drooping and sorrowful, harrass’d and sore,
They skimm’d the blue mountain, and cross’d the black moor,
And the Parrot, by this time quite clamorous grown,
Declar’d he should die of impatience alone.
However, consulting, they thought it was best
Now to steer a new course; so went down to the West.
[p29] On a high Cliff, in Cornwall, they found out the Chough;