William Cowper (1731–1800)

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease,

Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.

But you have killed a tiny bird

Which flew not till to-day,

Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat

And ease a doggish pain;

For him, though chased with furious heat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,

Or one whom blood allures,

But innocent was all his sport

Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog! what remedy remains,

Since, teach you all I can,

I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble man?