The stings that every summer are our portion,
Or take the trouble but to move an arm,
And, by opposing, end them. It flies—it creeps,
It creeps, perchance it stings! Then comes the rub,
When we have shuffled off our clothing. Soft,
'Twas but a bluebottle! How sweet it is
To lie like this i' the sun, and think of nought
Save how sweet 'tis to lie, and think of nought;
And that meseems to many wordy sages
Were small refreshment in this windy time.