  All upstarts, insolent in place, Remind us of their vulgar race. A butterfly, but born one morning, Sat on a rose, the rosebud scorning. His wings of azure, jet, and gold, Were truly glorious to behold; He spread his wings, he sipped the dew, When an old neighbour hove in view— The snail, who left a slimy trace Upon the lawn, his native place. "Adam," he to the gard'ner cried, "Behold this fellow by my side; What is the use with daily toil To war with weeds, to clear the soil, And with keen intermittent labour To graft and prune for fruit with flavour The peach and plum, if such as he, Voracious vermin, may make free? Give them the roller or the rake, And crush as you would crush a snake." The snail replied: "Your arrogance Awakes my patience from its trance; Recalls to mind your humble birth, Born from the lowliest thing on earth. Nine times has Phoebus, with the hours, Awakened to new life, new flowers, Since you were a vile crawling thing! Though now endowed with painted wing, You then were vilest of the vile— I was a snail, but housed the while; Was born a snail, and snail shall die; And thou, though now a butterfly, Will leave behind a baneful breed Of caterpillar sons—thy seed." |
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