As a Nightingale was Singing in a Bush, down comes a Rascally Kite of a Sparrow-Hawk, and whips her off the Bough: The Poor Wretch pleaded for her self, that alas! her Little Carcass was not worth the while, and that there were bigger Birds enough to be found. Well, says the Hawk, but am I so mad, d'ye think. as to part with a Little Bird that I have, for a Great One that I have not? Why then, says she, I'll give you a delicate Song for my Life: No, no, says the Hawk, I want for my Belly, not for my Ears.