The Crow, on carrion wont to feast,
The Carrion Crow condemn'd his taste:
The Rook in earnest too, not joking,
Swore all his singing was but croaking.
Some thought they meant to show their wit,
Might think so still — "but that they writ" —
Could it be spite or envy; — "No —
Who did no ill, could have no foe." —
So Wise Simplicity esteem'd,
Quite otherwise True Wisdom deem'd;
This question rightly understood,
"What more provokes than doing good?
A soul ennobled and refin'd
Reproaches every baser mind:
As strains exalted and melodious
Make every meaner musick odious." —
At length the Nightingale[1] was heard,
For voice and wisdom long rever'd,
Esteem'd of all the wise and good,
The Guardian Genius of the wood:
He long in discontent retir'd,
Yet not obscur'd, but more admir'd;
His brethren's servile souls disdaining,
He liv'd indignant and complaining:
They now afresh provoke his choler,
(It seems the Lark had been his scholar,
A favourite scholar always near him,
And oft had wak'd whole nights to hear him)
Enrag'd he canvasses the matter,
Exposes all their senseless chatter,
Shows him and them in such a light,
As more enflames, yet quells their spite.
They
