Thoughtless Cruelty
Charles Lamb
1775 to 1834
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There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly — ,
should you thousand ages try
The life you've taken supply,
You could not do it.
You surely must been devoid
Of thought and sense, to have destroy'd
thing which no way you annoy'd —
You'll one rue it.
Twas but a fly perhaps you'll say,
That's born in April, dies in May;
That does but learn to display
His wings one minute,
And in next is vanish'd quite.
A bird devours it in flight —
Or come a cold blast in the night,
There's no breath in it.
The bird but seeks proper food —
And Providence, whose power endu'd
That with life, when it thinks good,
May justly take it.
But you have no excuses for't —
A life Nature made so short,
Less reason is that you sport
Should shorter make it.
A fly a little you rate —
But, Robert do not estimate
A creature's pain by small or great;
The greatest being
Can but fibres, nerves, and flesh,
And these the smallest possess,
Although their frame and structure less
Escape our seeing.