A golden fly one show’d to me,
Clos’d in a box of ivory,
Where both seem’d proud: the fly to have
His burial in an ivory grave;
The ivory took state to hold
A corpse as bright as burnish’d gold.
One fate had both, both equal grace;
The buried, and the burying-place.
Not Virgil’s gnat, to whom the spring
All flowers sent to’s burying;
Not Martial’s bee, which in a bead
Of amber quick was buried;
Nor that fine worm that does inter
Herself i’ th’ silken sepulchre;
Nor my rare Phil,* that lately was
With lilies tomb’d up in a glass;
More honour had than this same fly,
Dead, and closed up in ivory.
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