The Wasp

Wrapt in Aurelian filth and slime, An infant wasp neglected lay; Till having doz'd the destin'd time, He woke, and struggl'd into day.

Proud of his venom bag and sting, And big with self-approved worth: Mankind, he said, and stretch'd his wing, Should tremble when I sally forth.

In copious streams my spleen shall flow, And satire all her purses drain; A critic born, the world shall know I carry not a sting in vain.

This said, from native cell of clay, Elate he rose in airy flight; Thence to the city chang'd his way, And on a steeple chanc'd to light.

Ye gods, he cry'd, what horrid pile Presumes to rear its head so high— This clumsy cornice—see how vile: Can this delight a critic's eye?

With pois'nous sting he strove to wound The substance firm: but strove in vain; Surpris'd he sees it stands its ground, Nor starts thro' fear, nor writhes with pain.

Away th' enraged insect flew; But soon with aggravated pow'r, Against the walls his body threw, And hop'd to shake the lofty tow'r.

Firm fix'd it stands; as stand it must, Nor heeds the wasp's unpitied fall: The humbled critic rolls in dust, So stunn'd, so bruis'd, he scarce can crawl.