Book IX, 264

The cicada used to sit on the highest boughs of the shrubs, and in the burning noon-tide sun, beating its belly with its wings, by the sweet variations of its self-wrought strains filled all the wilderness with music. But Criton of Pialia, the fowler who disdains no kind of game, caught this fleshless thing by its back with his limed twig. But he suffered punishment; for his daily craft now plays him false, and he wanders about not catching even a feather.