O troubled wit, O anger without thought,
That unadvised smitest, and for nought:
O heart of little faith, full of suspicion,
Where was thy handsomeness and thy discretion?
O every man, hold hastiness in loathing;
Believe, without strong testimony, nothing;
Smite not too soon, before ye well know why;
And be advised well and soberly
Before ye trust yourselves to the commission
Of any ireful deed upon suspicion.
Alas! a thousand folk hath hasty ire
Foully foredone, and brought into the mire.
Alas! I'll kill myself for misery."

And to the crow, "O thou false thief!" said he,
I'll quit thee, all thy life, for thy false tale;
Thou shalt no more sing like the nightingale,
Nor shalt thou in those fair white feathers go,
Thou silly thief, thou false, black-hearted crow;
Nor shalt thou ever speak like man again;
Thou shalt not have the power to give such pain;
Nor shall thy race wear any coat but black,
And ever shall their voices crone and crack
And be a warning against wind and rain,
In token that by thee my wife was slain."

So to the crow he started, like one mad,
And tore out every feather that he had,
And made him black, and reft him of his stores
Of song and speech, and flung him out of doors