Fable VIII. the Beau and Butterfly

Thus speaks an Adage, somewhat old, "TRUTH is not to be always told."

What eye but struck with outward show, Admires the pretty thing, a BEAU? Which both by Art and Nature made is, The sport of sense, the toy of ladies.

A mortal of this tiney mold, In cloaths of silk, adorn'd with gold, And dress'd in ev'ry point of sight To give the world of taste delight, Prepar'd to enter his Sedan, A Birth-day picture of a Man, Cried out in vain soliloquy, Was ever creature form'd like me? By Art or Nature's nicest care, Made more compleat, and Debonnair? I see myself, with perfect joy, Of human kind the Je ne sçai quoy; In ev'ry thing I rival FRANCE, In fashion, wit, and sprightly dance; So charming are my shape and parts, I'm form'd for captivating hearts; The proudest toast, when in the vein, I take at once by Coup de main; Mort de ma vie, 'tis magic all, I look, and vanquish'd Women fall.

One of the race of BUTTERFLIES, An insect far more nice than wise, Who from his sunny couch of glass, Had listen'd to the two legg'd Ass, With intermeddling zeal replied, Unequal'd folly—matchless pride! Shalt thou, a patch-work creature, claim More lovely shape, or greater name, Than one of us? Assert thy right, Stand naked in my critic sight.

To parent Earth at once resign The produce of her golden mine; Give to the worm her silken store, The di'mond to GOLCONDA'S shore; Nor let the many teeth you want, Be plunder'd from the Elephant; Let native locks adorn thy head, Nor glow thy cheeks with borrow'd red; Give to the OSTRICH back his plume, Nor rob the CAT of her perfume; Here to the BEAVER yield at once His fur which crowns thy empty sconce; In short, appear thro' ev'ry part, No more, nor less, than what thou art; Then little better than an APE, Will show thy metamorphos'd shape; While BUTTERFLIES to death retain The beauties they from Nature gain.

You'll say, perhaps, our sojourn here Is less by half, than half a year; That churlish Winter surely brings Destruction to our painted wings. I grant the truth—now answer me— Can Beaus outlive adversity? Will Milliners, and Taylors join, To make a foppish Beggar fine? 'Tis certain, No—of glitter made— You surely vanish in the shade; Compar'd, then, who will dare deny A BEAU is less than BUTTERFLY?