May colic chase such scurvy knaves

With pangs internal to their graves!

A sorry fabulist, indeed,

Who fancied that the winter’s need

Would drive thee to subsist, forlorn,

On Flies, on grubs, on grains of corn;

No need was ever thine of those,

For whom the honied fountain flows.

What matters winter? All thy kin

Beneath the earth are gathered in; [[24]]