FABLE LXX. THE BEAU AND THE BUTTERFLY. WHEN summer deck'd each sylvan scene, A flutt'ring insect call'd a Beau, Was seen around the fields to rove, And haunt, by turns, the stream and grove. His wings are spread with wanton pride, And beauty fades from all beside. The Beau beholds, with envious eyes, The living radiance as it flies: "And shall,' said he, this worthless thing, 'That lives but on a summer's wing, 'This flying worm, more gaudy shine, ' And wear a dress more gay than mine? 'While man, her worthiest, greatest part, 'Must wear the homely rags of art?' Thus reason'd he, as reason Beaux, The subject of their logic cloaths: When thus the Butterfly replied, With deeper tints by anger dy'd; • Vain trifling mortal! could'st thou boast What our Creator prizes most 'On man bestow'd, thou would'st not see • With envy aught bestow'd on me. This painted vestment, all my store, ' Is giv'n, and I can claim no more. 'But man, for greater ends design'd, 'Should boast the beauties of the mind. < More bright than gold with wisdom shine, 'And virtue's sacred charms be thine: To rule the world by reason taught, 'On dress disdain to wear a thought; "For he whom folly bends so low, 'Ambitious to be thought aBeau, Is studious only to be gay, 'In toilet-arts consumes the day; And, the long trifling labours o'er, "Takes wing, and bids the world adore; 'Looks down with scorn on rival flies, • Himself less splendid, and less wise; 'With scorn, his scorn return'd again, 'Proud insect! impotently vain! The fool, who thus by self is priz'd, 'By others justly is despis'd.' She said, and flutter'd round on high, Nor staid to hear the Beau's reply. FABLE LXXI. THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE GLOW-WORM. WHEN toilsome hours of day were spent, As trailing round from place to place; Then stooping low, with gentle hand, To hear what man-vain man would say. Until the wheel again turns round, And leaves them where they first were found." And weigh'd with prudence ev'ry word, And shone more beauteous o'er the plain; 'Did he in dang'rous times retire, 'And check with care ambition's fire, 'Like me he might new lustre spread, · And deck with laurels fresh his head. 'But coxcomb like, he's led astray To shine, and shines but for a day.' FABLE LXXII. THE FOUR BULLS. FRIENDSHIP! Source of purest bliss, |