My next Disguise too well you know,
Degraded to a simple Crow;
Both Cold and Hunger doom'd to bear,
And hover in the limpid Air,
Till on a day a spiteful Hind,
With dreadful Arms and bloody Mind,
Vow'd quick Destruction to my Head:
And in a Moment shot me dead:
Then set my ghastly Corse on high
To fright my Fellows from his Rye.