Improve every hour as it goes.
As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro,
With anger the butterfly swelled;
And called them mechanics—a rabble too low
To come near the station he held.
"Away from my presence!" said he, in his sleep,
"Ye humble plebeians! nor dare
Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep
The king of this brilliant parterre!"
He thought, at these words, that together they flew,