"Hence, when the Morus in Italia's lands To spring's warm beam its timid leaf expands; The Silk-Worm broods in countless tribes above Crop the green treasure, uninform'd of love; Erewhile the changeful worm with circling head Weaves the nice curtains of his silken bed; Web within web involves his larva form, Alike secured from sunshine and from storm; 300 For twelve long days He dreams of blossom'd groves, Untasted honey, and ideal loves; Wakes from his trance, alarm'd with young Desire, Finds his new sex, and feels ecstatic fire; From flower to flower with honey'd lip he springs, And seeks his velvet loves on silver wings. [Footnote: _Untasted honey_, l. 302. The numerous moths and butterflies seem to pass from a reptile leaf-eating state, and to acquire wings to flit in air, with a proboscis to gain honey for their food along with their organs of reproduction, solely for the purpose of propagating their species by sexual intercourse, as they die when that is completed. By the use of their wings they have access to each other on different branches or on different vegetables, and by living upon honey probably acquire a higher degree of animation, and thus seem to resemble the anthers of flowers, which probably are supported by honey only, and thence acquire greater sensibility; see Note on Vallisneria, l. 280 of this Canto. A naturalist, who had studied this subject, thought it not impossible that the first insects were the anthers and stigmas of flowers, which had by some means loosened themselves from their parent plant, like the male flowers of vallisneria, and that other insects in process of time had been formed from these, some acquiring wings, others fins, and others claws, from their ceaseless efforts to procure food or to secure themselves from injury. He contends, that none of these changes are more incomprehensible than the transformation of caterpillars into butterflies; see Botanic Garden, Vol. I. Additional Note XXXIX.] VI. "The Demon, Jealousy, with Gorgon frown Blasts the sweet flowers of Pleasure not his own, Rolls his wild eyes, and through the shuddering grove Pursues the steps of unsuspecting Love; 310 Or drives o'er rattling plains his iron car, Flings his red torch, and lights the flames of war.