Methought I heard a butterfly,
Say to a labouring bee,
"Thou hast no colours of the sky,
"On painted wings, like me!"
"Poor child of vanity, those dyes
"And colours bright and rare,
(With mild reproof the bee replies,)
"Are all beneath my care.
"Content I toil from morn till eve,
"And, scorning idleness,
"To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave
"The vanities of dress."