A stag upon a fountain's side, Beheld his branching horns with pride; While of his spindle-shanks asham'd, Their disproportioned form he blam'd. Sudden he hears the hunter's cries, And to the forest nimbly flies. The woods receive their well-known guest. His tangled horns, his feet arrest; The hounds approach, and seize their prey; Who, dying, thus was heard to say: "Wretch that I am! too late I learn, How little we the truth discern! What would have saved me, I despis'd, And what has been my ruin, priz'd!"