XV111 PREFACE. 



Whether the call-bird yield the hour's delight, 

 Or, magnified in microscope, the mite, 

 Or whether tumblers, croppers, carriers, seize 

 The gentle mind, they rule it, and they please. 



There is my friend the weaver, strong desires 



Reign in his breast ; 'tis beauty he admires : 



See ! to the shady grove he wings his way, 



And feels in hope the rapture of the day ; 



Eager he looks, and soon to glad his eyes, 



From the sweet bower by Nature form'd arise 



Bright troops of virgin moths, and fresh-born butterflies, 



Who brake that morning from their half-year's sleep, 



To fly o'er flowers, where they were wont to creep. 



Above the sovereign oak, a sovereign skims, 

 The Purple Emp'ror, strong in wing and limbs ; 

 There fair Camilla takes her flight serene, 

 Adonis blue, and Paphia, silver queen ; 

 With every filmy fly, from mead to bower, 

 And hungry Sphinx, who threads the honey'd flower ; 

 She o'er the Larkspur's bed, where sweets abound, 

 Views ev'ry bell, and hums the approving sound ; 

 Poised on her easy plumes, with feeling nice, 

 She draws from every flower, nor tries a floret twice. 

 He fears no bailiff's wrath, no baron's blame, 

 His is untax'd and undisputed game.* 



* Page 110. 



