Upon a garden's perfum'd bed
With various gaudy colours spread,
Beneath the shelter of a Rose
A Butterfly had sought repose;
Faint, with the sultry beams of day,
Supine the beauteous insect lay.

— A Bee, impatient to devour
The nectar sweets of ev'ry flow'r,
Returning to her golden store,
A weight of fragrant treasure bore;
With envious eye, she mark'd the shade,
Where the poor Butterfly was laid,
And resting on the bending spray,
Thus murmur'd forth her drony lay: —

— " Thou empty thing, whose merit lies
In the vain boast of orient dies;
Whose glittering form the slightest breath
Robs of its gloss, and fades to death;
Who idly rov'st the summer day,
Flutt'ring a transient life away,
Unmindful of the chilling hour,
The nipping frost, the drenching show'r;
Who heedless of " to-morrow's fare, "
Mak'st present bliss thy only care;
Is it for thee, the damask Rose
With such transcendent lustre glows?
Is it for such a giddy thing
Nature unveils the blushing spring?
Hence, from thy lurking place, and know,
'Tis not for thee her beauties glow. "

— The Butterfly, with decent pride,
In gentle accents, thus reply'd:
" 'Tis true, I flutter life away
In pastime, innocent and gay;
The Sun that decks the blushing spring
Gives lustre to my painted wing;
'Tis Nature bids each colour vie,
With rainbow tints of varying die;
I boast no skill, no subtle pow'r
To steal the balm from ev'ry flow'r;
The Rose, that only shelter'd me,
Has pour'd a load of sweets on thee;
Of merit we have both our share,
Heav'n gave thee Art, and made me fair;
And tho' thy cunning can despise
The humble worth of harmless flies;
Remember, envious, busy thing,
Thy honey'd form conceals a sting;
Enjoy thy garden, while I rove
The sunny hill, the woodbine grove,
And far remov'd from care and thee,
Embrace my humble destiny;
While in some lone sequester'd bow'r,
I'll live content beyond thy pow'r;
For where Ill-nature holds her reign
Taste, Worth, and Beauty, plead in vain;
E'ndash Genius must to Pride submit
When Envy wings the shaft of Wit.

Upon a garden's perfum'd bed
With various gaudy colours spread,
Beneath the shelter of a Rose
A Butterfly had sought repose;
Faint, with the sultry beams of day,
Supine the beauteous insect lay.

— A Bee, impatient to devour
The nectar sweets of ev'ry flow'r,
Returning to her golden store,
A weight of fragrant treasure bore;
With envious eye, she mark'd the shade,
Where the poor Butterfly was laid,
And resting on the bending spray,
Thus murmur'd forth her drony lay: —

— " Thou empty thing, whose merit lies
In the vain boast of orient dies;
Whose glittering form the slightest breath
Robs of its gloss, and fades to death;
Who idly rov'st the summer day,
Flutt'ring a transient life away,
Unmindful of the chilling hour,
The nipping frost, the drenching show'r;
Who heedless of " to-morrow's fare, "
Mak'st present bliss thy only care;
Is it for thee, the damask Rose
With such transcendent lustre glows?
Is it for such a giddy thing
Nature unveils the blushing spring?
Hence, from thy lurking place, and know,
'Tis not for thee her beauties glow. "

— The Butterfly, with decent pride,
In gentle accents, thus reply'd:
" 'Tis true, I flutter life away
In pastime, innocent and gay;
The Sun that decks the blushing spring
Gives lustre to my painted wing;
'Tis Nature bids each colour vie,
With rainbow tints of varying die;
I boast no skill, no subtle pow'r
To steal the balm from ev'ry flow'r;
The Rose, that only shelter'd me,
Has pour'd a load of sweets on thee;
Of merit we have both our share,
Heav'n gave thee Art, and made me fair;
And tho' thy cunning can despise
The humble worth of harmless flies;
Remember, envious, busy thing,
Thy honey'd form conceals a sting;
Enjoy thy garden, while I rove
The sunny hill, the woodbine grove,
And far remov'd from care and thee,
Embrace my humble destiny;
While in some lone sequester'd bow'r,
I'll live content beyond thy pow'r;
For where Ill-nature holds her reign
Taste, Worth, and Beauty, plead in vain;
E'ndash Genius must to Pride submit
When Envy wings the shaft of Wit.