The Butterfly And Ant: A Fable Poem by Cornelius Arnold

Fair Cloe! when thou deign'st to come,
To any neighb'ring Rout or Drum;
The Belles who shin'd before so bright,
Dazzl'd each Petit Maitre's Sight;
By thee eclips'd, their Lustre lose,
Thy Charms each Belle with Envy views;
Their Leers malignant round they throw,
At thee, and each admiring Beau:
Ah, envious Train! may never you,
In Dishabille gay Cloe view;
Then ev'ry Ear you'd buzzing fill,
Of slattern Cloe's Dishabille:
What keen Invectives would you spread,
Could you fair Cloe see in Bed?
What Tittle-tattle here and there,
Of soiled Sheets and matted Hair?
O! let not busy Tongues proclaim,
Nor scandalize bright Cloe's Fame;
E're they succeed, reflect, amend,
The Moral's plain, if you'll attend.


A Butterfly of Rank and Birth,
As high as any Fly's on Earth;
Upon a Summer's Sun-shine Day,
In wanton Flutters wing'd her Way;
O'er Fields, o'er Lawns, o'er gay Parterres,
And thought the Universe was her's:
At length she lighted on a Spray,
Near which a Race of Emmets lay,
Supine within their Demiball,
'Till rous'd by Industry's loud Call;
When each alert with Vigour sprung,
To end the Task they had begun:
A Female Lab'rer cast her Eye,
And happ'd her Ladyship to spy;
She star'd and look'd like one amaz'd,
At so much Beauty long she gaz'd;
But willing Spouse should have a Share,
And see a Thing so wond'rous rare;
'Come forth, says she, and leave your Grains,
'The Sight will amply pay your Pains;
'For ne'er was seen with Emmet's Eye,
'So delicate a Butterfly:'
This unlook'd-for Invitation,
Put him soon in Agitation;
He issu'd forth, and soon he came,
Where sat the gawdy listless Dame;
He Step by Step obsequious drew,
'Till nearer still he came in View;
'Fair Queen of Butterflies! he cry'd,
'What wretch art Thou?' she stern reply'd;
This insolent and haughty Taunt,
Did not dismay the curious Ant;
To gain his Point required Skill,
E'en Ants can flatter if they will;
In lavish Praise he then begun,
And swore her Eyes outvy'd the Sun;
Such burnish'd Feathers tipp'd with Gold,
No Mortal sure did e'er behold:
This Flatt'ry soon her Pride subdu'd,
She vow'd the ugly Ant was rude;
'What would'st thou have, thou little Knave?'
'Permit me, Ma'am, to be your Slave:'
Quite apropòs 'twas taken well,-
He ask'd the Lady to his Cell;
Promis'd to shew her all his Store,
And teach her Arts unknown before:
The dainty Dame then smil'd Consent,
To follow where her 'Squire went:
He bid a trusty Servant hie,
Acquaint the Swarm a Guest was nigh;
Desir'd they'd set their Portals wide,
To lay their num'rous Eggs aside,
And of their Cheer the best provide:
When lo! arrives th'illustrious Guest,
The busy Swarm their Zeal exprest;
In Files obsequious back they fell,
Then marched to the inmost Cell;
Where ready stood the plain Repast,
Whate'er could please the sober Taste:
The Banquet o'er, they now presume,
To shew her forth from Room to Room;
Where providential Care was seen,
In hoarded Heaps, and all was clean:
Ah, Fools! to think so fine a Fly,
Could e'er endure Oeconomy;
And hadn't she been a Fly polite,
She would have told them so outright;
Now vapour'd, spleen'd she bid adieu!
Oblig'd to meet the L--d knows who;
Then with Air of Affectation;
Gave her Spark this Invitation;
'On yonder beau Parterre I dwell,
''Tis there, Sir Ant! I'm known full well:'
To each kind Emmet Thanks she gave,
And did her Honours to her Slave:
The Lady gone, the silly Elf,
Now loath'd his Wife, his Food, hisself;
In melancholy Mood would cry,
Ah! when again shall wretched I,
Behold my most enchanting Fly?
He reason'd of unlawful Flame,
But still, alas! 'twas all the same;
Against the wily Cupid's Dart,
What Emp alive could guard his Heart?
His silly Mind by Love o'ercame,
(Wiser than him have been to blame)
No longer able to endure,
He e'en sets out to find a Cure;
Love lent him Wings, he soon arrives,
But who can paint the Emp's Surprize?
So strangely alter'd was the Dame,
He could have swore she wer'n't the same,
And when his Compliments he paid,
Ill-savour'd Scents the House betray'd;
Her Eggs were scatter'd here and there,
And perishing for want of Care;
In short, the whole disorder'd Scene,
Soon gave the cleanly Ant the Spleen;
Quite sick of such a fine Outside,
Cur'd of his Passion, Home he hy'd;
While she, alas! is now the Scorn,
Of ev'ry Housewife in the Swarm.