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