Poor insect! rash as rare!—Thy sovereign,[403] sure,
Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace—
Else what delusion could thy sense allure
To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place,
Where e’en the hornet’s hoarser, and the race
Of filmy wing are feeble? Honey here
(Scarce as its rhyme) thou find’st not. Ah, beware
Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear![404]
Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal lyre,
Have pent thee up, a second Asmodeus,