And Those, whose Arts the feather'd World ensnare,
Nor mighty Pain endure, nor pensive Care.
The Birds, when out of Reach, are yet in Sight,
And hope in vain their Safety from their Flight.
Oft they are seiz'd unthinking as they rest
In harmless Dreams, and Slumber in their Nest.
Oft make a treach'rous Twig their fatal Seat,
While viscous Lime retains the captive Feet.
To the drawn Net they hast, and court their Fate,
Till in the Snare enclos'd they flutt'ring grieve too late.