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