Then all will hastily retreat, and fill
  The warm resounding hollow of their cell. 
     If once two rival kings their right debate,
  And factions and cabals embroil the state,
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  The people’s actions will their thoughts declare;
  All their hearts tremble, and beat thick with war;
  Hoarse, broken sounds, like trumpets’ harsh alarms,
  Run through the hive, and call them to their arms;
  All in a hurry spread their shivering wings,
  And fit their claws, and point their angry stings: 
  In crowds before the king’s pavilion meet,
  And boldly challenge out the foe to fight: 
  At last, when all the heavens are warm and fair,
  They rush together out, and join; the air
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  Swarms thick, and echoes with the humming war. 
  All in a firm round cluster mix, and strow
  With heaps of little corps the earth below,
  As thick as hailstones from the floor rebound,
  Or shaken acorns rattle on the ground. 
  No sense of danger can their kings control,
  Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul: 
  Each obstinate in arms pursues his blow,
  Till shameful flight secures the routed foe. 
  This hot dispute and all this mighty fray
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  A little dust flung upward will allay. 
     But when both kings are settled in their hive,
  Mark him who looks the worst, and, lest he live
  Idle at home in ease and luxury,
  The lazy monarch must be doomed to die;
  So let the royal insect rule alone,
  And reign without a rival in his throne. 
     The kings are different; one of better note,
  All speck’d with gold, and many a shining spot,
  Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat;
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  But love of ease, and sloth, in one prevails,
  That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails: 
  The people’s looks are different as their kings’,
  Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings;
  Others look loathsome and diseased with sloth,
  Like a faint traveller, whose dusty mouth
  Grows dry with heat, and spits a mawkish froth. 
  The first are best——­
  From their o’erflowing combs you’ll often press
  Pure luscious sweets, that mingling in the glass
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  Correct the harshness of the racy juice,
  And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse. 
  But when they sport abroad, and rove from home,
  And leave the cooling hive, and quit the unfinished comb,
  Their airy ramblings are with ease confined,
  Clip their king’s wings, and if they stay behind
  No bold usurper dares invade their right,
  Nor sound a march, nor give the sign for flight. 
  Let flowery banks entice them to their cells,
  And gardens all perfumed with native smells;
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  Where carved Priapus has his fixed abode,
  The robber’s terror, and the scarecrow god. 
  Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill
  Transplant, and nurse them in the neighbouring