Poem by William Lisle Bowles

The Butterfly and the Bee

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 to eve,
And scorning idleness,
To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave
The vanity of dress.' 

1. On Resigning a Scholarship of Trinity College, Oxford, and Retiring to a Country Curacy
2. Picture of an Old Man
3. On an Unfortunate and Beautiful Woman
4. Greenwich Hospital
5. Elegiac Stanzas

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