By one small atom of the sun;
These are flies’ eggs, in moonshine poach’d;
This a flea’s thigh, in collops scotched—
‘Twas hunted yesterday i’ the park,
And like t’have ‘scaped us in the dark.
This is a dish entirely new—
Butterflies’ brains, dissolved in dew;
These lovers’ vows, these courtiers’ hopes,
Things to be eat by microscopes;
These sucking-mites, a glow-worm’s heart,