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,[K] That Lately Was With Lilies Tomb'D Up In A Glass; More Honour Had Than This Same Fly, Dead, And Closed Up In Ivory.