DEATH OF THE FLY.
WITH eagerness he drinks the treach'rous
Nor stops to rest, by the first
Sweet is the draught, but soon all power of motion
He finds has from his tender members
No longer has he strength to plume his wing,
No longer strength to raise his head, poor thing!
E'en in enjoyment's hour his life he loses,
His little foot to bear his weight refuses;
So on he sips, and ere his draught is o'er,
Death veils his thousand eyes for evermore.