Methought I heard a butterflySay to a labouring bee,Thou hast no colours of the skyOn 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 gawdy sloth I leaveThe vanities of dress.
William Lisle Bowles (1762 – 1850)