It was the Fortune of a poor Thrush, among other Birds, to be taken with a Bush of Lime-Twigs, and the miserable Creature reflecting upon it, that the chief Ingredient in the Birdlime came out of her own Guts: I am not half so much troubled, says the Thrush, at the Thought of dying, as at the Fatality of contributing to my own Ruin.
Nothing goes nearer a Man in his Misfortunes, than to find himself undone by his own folly, or but any way accessary to his own Ruin.
Source: L'Estrange 49.
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