flock,
    Could he the Shepherd’s voice but mock. 
      He thought undoubtedly he could. 
    He tried:  the tone in which he spoke,
      Loud echoing from the wood,
      The plot and slumber broke;
      Sheep, dog, and man awoke. 
      The Wolf, in sorry plight,
      In hampering coat bedight,
      Could neither run nor fight.

There’s always leakage of deceit Which makes it never safe to cheat, Whoever is a Wolf had better Keep clear of hypocritic fetter.

  The Lion and the Ass Hunting

  The King of animals, with royal grace,
  Would celebrate his birthday in the chase. 
    Twas not with bow and arrows,
    To slay some wretched sparrows;
  The Lion hunts the wild boar of the wood,
  The antlered deer and stags, the fat and good. 
    This time, the King, t’ insure success,
    Took for his aide-de-camp an Ass,
    A creature of stentorian voice,
    That felt much honoured by the choice. 
  The Lion hid him in a proper station,
  And ordered him to bray, for his vocation,
    Assured that his tempestuous cry
    The boldest beasts would terrify,
    And cause them from their lairs to fly. 
  And, sooth, the horrid noise the creature made
  Did strike the tenants of the wood with dread;
    And, as they headlong fled,
  All fell within the Lion’s ambuscade. 
    “Has not my service glorious
    Made both of us victorious?”
    Cried out the much-elated Ass. 
  “Yes,” said the Lion; “bravely bray’d! 
    Had I not known yourself and race,
  I should have been myself afraid!”
    The Donkey, had he dared,
    With anger would have flared
  At this retort, though justly made;
    For who could suffer boasts to pass
    So ill-befitting to an Ass?

  The Oak and the Reed

  The Oak one day address’d the Reed: 
  “To you ungenerous indeed
  Has nature been, my humble friend,
  With weakness aye obliged to bend. 
  The smallest bird that flits in air
  Is quite too much for you to bear;
  The slightest wind that wreathes the lake
  Your ever-trembling head doth shake. 
  The while, my towering form
    Dares with the mountain top
    The solar blaze to stop,
  And wrestle with the storm. 
  What seems to you the blast of death,
  To me is but a zephyr’s breath. 
  Beneath my branches had you grown,
  Less suffering would your life have known,
    Unhappily you oftenest show
      In open air your slender form,
    Along the marshes wet and low,
      That fringe the kingdom of the storm. 
    To you, declare I must,
    Dame Nature seems unjust.” 
  Then modestly replied the Reed: 
  “Your pity, sir, is kind indeed,
  But wholly needless for my sake. 
  The wildest wind that ever blew
  Is safe to me compared with you.