The Peacock to the Queen of heaven Complained in some such words: "Great goddess, you have given To me, the laughing stock of birds, A voice which fills, by taste quite just, All nature with disgust; Whereas that little paltry thing, The nightingale, pours from her throat So sweet and ravishing a note; She bears alone the honours of the spring." In anger Juno heard, And cried, "Shame on you, jealous bird! Grudge you the nightingale her voice, Who in the rainbow neck rejoice, Than costliest silks more richly tinted, In charms of grace and form unstinted-- Who strut in kingly pride, Your glorious tail spread wide With brilliants which in sheen do Outshine the jeweller's bow window? Is there a bird beneath the blue That has more charms than you? No animal in everything can shine. By just partition of our gifts divine, Each has its full and proper share. Among the birds that cleave the air The hawk's a swift, the eagle is a brave one, For omens serves the hoarse old raven, The rook's of coming ills the prophet; And if there's any discontent, I've heard not of it. Cease, then, your envious complaint; Or I, instead of making up your lack, Will take your boasted plumage from your back." The Eagle and the Beetle John Rabbit, by Dame Eagle chased, Was making for his hole in haste, When, on his way, he met a Beetle's burrow. I leave you all to think If such a little chink Could to a rabbit give protection thorough; But, since no better could be got, John Rabbit, there was fain to squat. Of course, in an asylum so absurd, John felt ere long the talons of the bird. But first the Beetle, interceding, cried, "Great queen of birds, it cannot be denied That, maugre my protection, you can bear My trembling guest, John Rabbit, through the air, But do not give me such affront, I pray; And since he craves your grace, In pity of his case, Grant him his life, or take us both away; For he's my gossip, friend and neighbour." In vain the Beetle's friendly labour; The Eagle clutched her prey without reply, And as she flapped her vasty wings to fly, Struck down our orator and stilled him-- The wonder is she hadn't killed him. The Beetle soon, of sweet revenge in quest Flew to the old, gnarled mountain oak, Which proudly bore that haughty Eagle's nest. And while the bird was gone, Her eggs, her cherished eggs, he broke, Not sparing one. Returning from her flight, the Eagle's cry Of rage and bitter anguish filled the sky, But, by excess of passion blind, Her enemy she failed to find. Her wrath in vain, that year it was her fate To live a mourning mother, desolate. The next, she built a loftier nest; 'twas vain; The Beetle found and dashed her eggs again.