A Fowler took his gun, and went into the woods a-shooting. He spied a
Ring-dove among the branches of an Oak, and clapping the piece to his
shoulder, took his aim, and made himself sure of killing it. But just
as he was going to pull the trigger, an Adder, which he had trod upon
under the grass, bit him so painfully in the leg, that he was obliged
to quit his design, and throw his gun down in an agony. The venom
immediately infected his blood, and his whole body began to mortify;
which, when he perceived, he could not help owning it to be just. Fate,
says he, has brought destruction upon me, while I was contriving the
death of another.