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 His choice bits; with which in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all the while his eye was served We dare not think his ear was sterved: But that there was in place to stir His fire the pittering Grasshopper; The merry Cricket, puling Fly, The piping Gnat for minstralcy. The Humming Dor, the dying Swan, And each a choice Musician. And now we must imagine first, The Elves present to quench his thirst A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, Brought and beswetted 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, but with a little Neat cool allay of Cuckoo's spittle; A little Fuz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands— That was too coarse, but he not spares To feed upon the candid hairs Of a dried canker, with a sagg And well bestuffed Bee's sweet bag: Stroking his pallet with some store Of Emmet eggs. What would he more, But Beards of Mice, an Ewt's stew'd thigh, A pickled maggot and a dry Hipp, with a Red cap worm, that's shut Within the concave of a Nut