with Foxes may for Cunning vie,
These too (as Rusticks tell) will feign to die.
Stretcht at full Length the mimick Carcass lies,
The Teeth are set, and fixt the closing Eyes;
The Hypocrite low draws his silent Breath,
Expressing well the leaden Sleep of Death.
Perch'd on her Bough the wanton Chirper mocks
The quiet harmless Posture of the Fox.
To distant Flocks she sings the pleasing Tale;
All glad descend, and hover o'er the Vale,
Oft whet the Bill, oft turn the busy Head,
And with vain Pride insult the seeming dead.
He watches, as they move, with guilty Eyes,
Till nimble Jaws the vent'rous Bird surprize.
His rav'nous Teeth the little Songster tear;
Ah luckless Wretch! thy Death is too sincere.
Wide gapes her Breast, he sucks the reeking Wound,
While downy Flakes lie scatter'd on the Ground.