Thoughtless Cruelty

There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly-- And should you thousand ages try The life you've taken to supply, You could not do it.

You surely must have been devoid Of thought and sense, to have destroy'd A thing which no way you annoy'd-- You'll one day rue it.

'Twas but a fly perhaps you'll say, That's born in April, dies in May; That does but just learn to display His wings one minute,

And in the next is vanish'd quite. A bird devours it in his flight-- Or come a cold blast in the night, There's no breath in it.

The bird but seeks his proper food-- And Providence, whose power endu'd That fly with life, when it thinks good, May justly take it.

But you have no excuses for't-- A life by Nature made so short, Less reason is that you for sport Should shorter make it.

A fly a little thing you rate-- But, Robert, do not estimate A creature's pain by small or great; The greatest being

Can have but fibres, nerves, and flesh, And these the smallest ones possess, Although their frame and structure less Escape our seeing.