Volume 1 — VPON A GNATT BURNT IN A CANDLE.

Little, buzzing, wanton elfe Perish there, and thanke thy selfe. Thou deseru'st thy life to loose, For distracting such a Muse. Was it thy ambitious aime By thy death to purchase fame? Didst thou hope he would in pitty Haue bestow'd a funerall ditty On thy ghoast? and thou in that To haue outliuèd Virgill's gnatt? No! The treason thou hast wrought Might forbid thee such a thought. If that Night's worke doe miscarry, Or a syllable but vary; A greater foe thou shalt me find, The destruction of thy kind. Phœbus, to revenge thy fault, In a fiery trapp thee caught; That thy wingèd mates might know it, And not dare disturbe a poet. Deare and wretched was thy sport, Since thyselfe was crushèd for't; Scarcely had that life a breath, Yet it found a double death; Playing in the golden flames, Thou fell'st into an inky Thames; Scorch'd and drown'd. That petty sunne A pretty Icarus hath vndone.