  A fox was dying, and he lay In all the weakness of decay. A numerous progeny, with groans, Attended to his feeble tones: "My crimes lie heavy on my soul; My sons, my sons, your raids control! Ah, how the shrieks of murdered fowl Environ me with stunning howl!" The hungry foxes in a ring Looked round, but saw there no such thing: "This is an ecstasy of brain: We fast, dear sir, and wish in vain." "Gluttons! restrain such wish," replied The dying fox; "be such defied; Inordinate desires deplore; The more you win, you grieve the more. Do not the dogs betray our pace, And gins and guns destroy our race? Old age—which few of us attain— Now puts a period to my pain. Would you the good name lost redeem? Live, then, in credit and esteem." "Good counsel, marry!" said a fox; "And quit our mountain-dens and rocks! But if we quit our native place, We bear the name that marks our race; And what our ancestry have done Descends to us from sire to son. Though we should feed like harmless lambs, We should regarded be as shams; The change would never be believed; A name lost cannot be retrieved." The Sire replied: "Too true; but then— Hark! that's the cackle of a hen. Go, but be moderate, spare the brood: One chicken, one, might do me good." |
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