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 His choice bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all this while his eye is serv'd, We must not think his ear was sterv'd; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat for minstrelsy. And now we must imagine first, The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew Brought and besweetened in a blue And pregnant violet, which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies: Of which he eats, and tastes a little Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle. A little fuzz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands; That was too coarse: but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagg And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag: Gladding his palate with some store Of emmets' eggs; what would he more? But beards of mice, a newt's stewed thigh, A bloated earwig and a fly;