'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 tiny mould, In clothes of silk, adorned with gold, And dressed in ev'ry point of sight To give the world of taste delight, Prepared to enter his sedan, A birthday picture of a man, Cried out in vain soliloquy: "Was ever creature formed like me? By Art or Nature's nicest care Made more complete and debonnair? I see myself, with perfect joy, Of human kind the _je ne sçai quoy_; In ev'rything I rival France, In fashion, wit, and sprightly dance; So charming are my shape and parts, I'm formed 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 vanquished women fall!" One of the race of butterflies, An insect far more nice than wise, Who, from his sunny couch of glass, Had listened to the two-legged ass, With intermeddling zeal replied: "Unequalled folly! matchless pride! Shalt thou, a patchwork 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 diamond to Golconda's shore; Nor let the many teeth you want Be plundered from the elephant; Let native locks adorn thy head, Nor glow thy cheeks with borrowed 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 through every part No more, nor less, than what thou art; Then little better than an ape Will show thy metamorphosed 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 tailors join To make a foppish beggar fine? 'Tis certain, no. Of glitter made, You surely vanish in the shade. Compared, then, who will dare deny A beau is less than butterfly?"' _The Nightingale and Glow-worm_ (Edward Moore).