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A dying Swan, that with her fleeting Breath,
In tuneful Accents, seem'd to welcome Death;
Was, by a Stork, that heard her Song, admir'd,
When in such joyful Transports she expir'd:
That she, who ne'er before unlock'd her Throat,
To please her self with any charming Note;
Shou'd at grim Death's Approach, which others fear,
So gay, so chearful, so serene appear.
The Swan reply'd, I well may raise my Voice,
And at the kind Relief of Fate rejoyce;
Since I for Food shall take no longer Care,
No longer dread the Fowler's Gun or Snare.