Poor harmless insect, thither fly,
   And life’s short hour enjoy;
’Tis all thou hast, and why should I
   That little all destroy.

Why should my tyrant will suspend
   A life by wisdom giv’n;
Or sooner bid thy being end,
   Than was designed by Heav’n.

Lost to the joy which reason knows, 
  Thy bosom, fair and frail, 
Loves best to wander where the rose 
  Perfumes the cooling gale.

To bask upon the sunny bed,
   The damask flowers to kiss;
To rove along the bending shade
   Is all thy life of bliss.

Then flutter still thy silken wings,
   In rich embroid'ry drest;
And sport upon the gale that flings
   Sweet odours from his vest.