Pismire

Why looke you, I am whipt and ſcourg'd with rods, Netled, and ſtung with piſmires, when I heare Of this vile polititian, Bullingbrooke,

Much there is not of wonder in the confused Houses of Pismires, though much in their busie life and actions […]

What are we in the great scale of events, we poor defenceless frontier inhabitants? What is it to the gazing world, whether we breathe or whether we die? Whatever virtue, whatever merit and disinterestedness we may exhibit in our secluded retreats, of what avail? We are like the pismires destroyed by the plough; whose destruction prevents not the future crop.

We are scurrying emmets or pismires with our sad little comedies.