And what that thou wert giv'n, and pleas'd my miss,Since now the bird's unhappy glory dies ?A lovely verdant green grac'd ev'ry quill,The deepest vivid red did paint thy bill;In speaking thou didst ev'ry bird excel,None prattled, and none lisp'd the words so well.'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,