| As in the sunshine of the morn, A Butterfly, but newly born, Sat proudly perking on a rose, With pert conceit his bosom glows; His wings, all glorious to behold, Bedropt with azure, jet and gold, Wide he displays; the spangled dew Reflects his eyes, and various hue. |
| His now forgotten friend, a Snail, Beneath his house, with slimy trail, Crawls o'er the grass; whom, when he spies, In wrath he to the gardener cries: |
| "What means yon peasant's daily toil, From choaking weeds to rid the soil? Why wake you to the morning's care? Why with new arts correct the year? Why glows the peach with crimson hue? And why the plum's inviting blue? Were they to feast his taste designed, That vermin, of voracious kind? Crush, then, the slow, the pilf'ring race; So purge thy garden from disgrace." |
| "What arrogance!" the Snail replied; "How insolent is upstart pride! Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain, Provoked my patience to complain, I had concealed thy meaner birth, Nor traced thee to the scum of earth: For, scarce nine suns have wak'd the hours, To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers, Since I thy humbler life surveyed, In base, in sordid guise arrayed; A hideous insect, vile, unclean, You dragg'd a slow and noisome train; And from your spider-bowels drew Foul film, and spun the dirty clue. I own my humble life, good friend; Snail was I born, and Snail shall end. And what's a Butterfly? At best, He's but a Caterpillar, dress'd; And all thy race (a numerous seed) Shall prove of Caterpillar breed." |
MORAL.
