The little , tho' arm'd with pointed Spears,
Yet weak and slow, unequal Combat fears.
But by the  rav'nous Force opprest,
He with the Means of sweet Revenge is blest.
Within his Jaws enclos'd he furious bounds,
Strikes at the Roof, and leaves the killing Wounds.
The careless  of tastful Prey possest
Regards no Pain, but gluttons on the Feast.
Till soon thro' all the deadly Gangrene spreads,
And putrid Bane the fretting Ulcer feeds.
From rankled Sores the gnawing Pains increase;
And now the Wretch his destin'd End foresees,
Despairing pines, and racking Torture feels:
No friendly Hand the growing Ulcer heals.
Oft has the  the bearded Squadrons sought,
And oft the luscious Food too dearly bought.
No Pity to the shelly Race was shown,
'Twas therefore just their Fate should prove his own.
They wound with Pain, what they with Pleasure fill,
Subdue their Conquerour, and dying kill.