> Let 𝑆𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑢𝑠 tremble—‘What? that thing of silk,
𝑆𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑢𝑠, that mere White Curd of Ass’s milk?
Satire or Sense, alas! can 𝑆𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑢𝑠 feel?
Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?’
Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings,
This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings;
Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys,
Yet Wit ne’er tastes, and Beauty ne’er enjoys:
So well-bred Spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the Game they dare not bite.