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     ‘Friend,’ says the sage, ’the doom is wise;
  For public good the murderer dies. 
  But if these tyrants of the air
  Demand a sentence so severe,
  Think how the glutton man devours;
  What bloody feasts regale his hours! 
  O impudence of power and might,
  Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
  When thou, perhaps, carniv’rous sinner,
  Hadst pullets yesterday for dinner!’
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     ‘Hold,’ cried the clown, with passion heated,
  ’Shall kites and men alike be treated? 
  When Heaven the world with creatures stored,
  Man was ordained their sovereign lord.’ 
     ‘Thus tyrants boast,’ the sage replied,
  ’Whose murders spring from power and pride. 
  Own then this man-like kite is slain
  Thy greater luxury to sustain;
  For “Petty rogues submit to fate,
  That great ones may enjoy their state."’[5]
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FABLE XXXVII.

THE FARMER’S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

  ’Why are those tears? why droops your head? 
  Is then your other husband dead? 
  Or does a worse disgrace betide? 
  Hath no one since his death applied?’
     ’Alas! you know the cause too well: 
  The salt is spilt, to me it fell. 
  Then, to contribute to my loss,
  My knife and fork were laid across;
  On Friday too! the day I dread! 
  Would I were safe at home in bed!
10
  Last night (I vow to heaven ’tis true)
  Bounce from the fire a coffin flew. 
  Next post some fatal news shall tell,
  God send my Cornish friends be well!’
     ’Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,
  Nor feel affliction in thy fears,
  Let not thy stomach be suspended;
  Eat now, and weep when dinner’s ended;
  And when the butler clears the table,
  For thy desert, I’ll read my fable.’
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     Betwixt her swagging panniers’ load
  A farmer’s wife to market rode,
  And, jogging on, with thoughtful care
  Summed up the profits of her ware;
  When, starting from her silver dream,
  Thus far and wide was heard her scream: 
     ’That raven on yon left-hand oak
  (Curse on his ill-betiding croak)
  Bodes me no good.’  No more she said,
  When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
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  Fell prone; o’erturned the pannier lay,
  And her mashed eggs bestrewed the way. 
     She, sprawling in the yellow road,
  Railed, swore and cursed:  ’Thou croaking toad,
  A murrain take thy whoreson throat! 
  I knew misfortune in the note.’ 
     ‘Dame,’ quoth the raven, ’spare your oaths,
  Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. 
  But why on me those curses thrown? 
  Goody, the fault was all your own;
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  For had you laid this brittle ware,
  On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,
  Though all the ravens of the hundred,
  With croaking had your tongue out-thundered,
  Sure-footed Dun had kept his legs,
  And you, good woman, saved your eggs.’