Thy mangled carcase, writh’d with pain,
Shall mark with blood the dusty plain:
Then death, the dread of all below,
Thy wish—will surely end thy woe;
Untimely death, for now to die,
Is ne’er to rise a butterfly.”
“A Butterfly!” th’ Advent’rer cry’d,
“What’s that?” “A bird,” his friend reply’d,
“To which this reptile form shall rise,
And gorgeous mount the lofty skies;