'Twas envy only sent this fierce disease;Thou wert averse to war, and liv'dst in peace,A talking harmless thing, and lov'dst thine ease.The fighting quails still live 'midst all their strife,And even that, perhaps, prolongs their life.Thy meat was little, and thy prattling tongueWould ne'er permit to make thy dinner long:Plain fountain water all thy drink allow'd,And nut and poppy-seed were all thy food.The preying vultures and the kites remain,And the unlucky crow still caws for rain;The chough still lives 'midst fierce Minerva's hate,And scarce nine hundred years conclude her fate;But my poor Poll now hangs his sickly head,My Poll, my present from the east, is dead.Best things are sooner snatch'd by cov'tous fate,To worse she freely gives a longer date;Thersites brave Achilles' fate surviv'd,And Hector fell, whilst all his brothers liv'd.Why should I tell what vows Corinna made?