On Mites

DEAR Madam, did you never gaze,
Thro' Optic-glass, on rotten Cheese?
There, Madam, did you ne'er perceive
A Crowd of dwarfish Creatures live?
The little Things, elate with Pride,
Strut to and fro, from Side to Side:
In tiny Pomp, and pertly vain,
Lords of their pleasing Orb, they reign;
And, fill'd with harden'd Curds and Cream,
Think the whole Dairy made for them.

SO Men, conceited Lords of all,
Walk proudly o'er this pendent Ball,
Fond of their little Spot below,
Nor greater Beings care to know;
But think, those Worlds, which deck the Skies,
Were only form'd to please their Eyes.