"Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,
Since that great plague that swept as many more,
Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry,
"It has not brought us one new butterfly!"
In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,
Unhappy I——y! how came you to please?
Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;
But, in effect, his chase is much the same;
Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title and estate: