Sister

It has a form and fibres fine, Were temper'd by the hand divine Who dwells beyond the sky. Look, brother, you have hurt its wing-- And plainly by its fluttering You see it's in distress, Gay painted Coxcomb, spangled Beau, A Butterfly is call'd you know, That's always in full dress: The finest gentleman of all Insects he is--he gave a Ball, You know the Poet wrote. Let's fancy this the very same, And then you'll own you've been to blame To spoil his silken coat.