Classic Poem

 A DUCK long kept for a decoy,
Did in deceit her time employ;
From various parts of her own kind,
Numbers she brought for death design'd.
For this well-fed and much caress'd,
She seem'd of happiness possess'd:
And oft she vaunted of her art,
That such advantage could impart.
 A Stork, a pious, friendly bird,
The boaster, disapproving, heard.
“Trait'ress,” she said, “'tis thine to prove
“The breach of valued social love.”
 “I love myself,” the Duck then cries,
“And should I not be counted wise?
“'Tis thus in plenty that I live;
“What more can love or friendship give?”
 “It gives me peace,” the Stork reply'd,
“More worth than all the world beside;
“But fear'st not thou a day will come
“To mark thee for a fatal doom,
“If e'er these boasted arts should fail,
“Or accident o'er skill prevail?
“When that arrives, expect to fall
“ Unpity'd , as despis'd by all.”
 But words like these no heed could claim,
The trait'ress slies in search of game;
And many, by her artful wiles,
To her old haunts with ease beguiles.
When aptly lodg'd in the decoy,
Their numbers she surveys with joy.
The foe appears; aloft they fly,
And find entangling nets on high,
But these not spread with wonted care,
Are loos'd; the birds restor'd to air.
 As thus the snare the strangers shun,
The angry fowler loads his gun.
He shoots; but ill his aim succeeds,
For 'tis his own Decoy-duck bleeds.
In agonies she yields her breath,
And thinks upon the Stork in death.