§32 THE NATURAL HISTORY, Sec. 
Was it for this my watchful eyes grew dim ? 
Thecrimfon rofes on my cheek turn pale ? 
Pale is my golden plumage, once fo trim j 
And all my wonted fpirits ’gin to fail. 
O plund’rer vile ; O more than Weezel fell f 
More treach’rous than the Cat with prudifhface; 
More fierce than Kites with whom the furies dwell, 
More pilf’ring than the Cuckow’s prowling race. 
For thee may plum or goofb’ry never grow, 
Nor juicy currant cool thy clammy throat * 
Rut bloody birch-twigs work thee lhameful woe , 
Nor ever Gold-finch cheer thee with her note 1 
Thus fang the mournful bird her piteous tale. 
The piteous tale her mournful mate return’d ; 
Then fide by fide they fought the diflant vale^ 
And there in filent fadnefs inly mourn’d. 
