Methought I heard a butterfly
— Say to a laboring bee:
" Thou hast no colors of the sky
— On painted wings like me. "

" Poor child of vanity! those dyes,
— And colors bright and rare, "
With mild reproof, the bee replies,
— " Are all beneath my care.

" Content I toil from morn till eve,
— And, scorning idleness,
To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave
— The vanity of dress. "