A Fox Was Dying, And He Lay In All The Weakness Of Decay. A Numerous Progeny, With Groans, Attended To His Feeble Tones: "My Crimes Lie Heavy On My Soul; My Sons, My Sons, Your Raids Control! Ah, How The Shrieks Of Murdered Fowl Environ Me With Stunning Howl!" The Hungry Foxes In A Ring Looked Round, But Saw There No Such Thing: "This Is An Ecstasy Of Brain: We Fast, Dear Sir, And Wish In Vain." "Gluttons! Restrain Such Wish," Replied The Dying Fox; "Be Such Defied; Inordinate Desires Deplore; The More You Win, You Grieve The More. Do Not The Dogs Betray Our Pace, And Gins And Guns Destroy Our Race? Old Age - Which Few Of Us Attain - Now Puts A Period To My Pain. Would You The Good Name Lost Redeem? Live, Then, In Credit And Esteem." "Good Counsel, Marry!" Said A Fox; "And Quit Our Mountain-Dens And Rocks! But If We Quit Our Native Place, We Bear The Name That Marks Our Race; And What Our Ancestry Have Done Descends To Us From Sire To Son. Though We Should Feed Like Harmless Lambs, We Should Regarded Be As Shams; The Change Would Never Be Believed; A Name Lost Cannot Be Retrieved." The Sire Replied: "Too True; But Then - Hark! That's The Cackle Of A Hen. Go, But Be Moderate, Spare The Brood: One Chicken, One, Might Do Me Good."