Another

Tis a moon-tinted primrose, with a well Of trembling dew; in its soft atmosphere, A tiny whirlwind of sweet smells, doth swell A lady bird; and when no sound is near That elfin hermit fans the fairy bell With glazen wings, (mirrors on which appear Atoms of colours that flizz by unseen And struts about his darling flower with pride. But, if some buzzing gnat with pettish spleen Come whining by, the insect ‘gins to hide And folds its flimsy drapery between His speckled buckler and soft silken side. So poets fly the critics snappish heat, And sheath their minds in scorn and self-conceit