THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.

1 Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a labouring bee, Thou hast no colours of the sky On painted wings, like me.

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

3 Content I toil from morn till eve, And, scorning idleness, To tribes of gawdy sloth I leave The vanities of dress.