“How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearers feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest! Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw: The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed; But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.”

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