An empty form of empty show,
A flutt’ring insect, call’d a Beau,
In gaudy colours rich and gay,
A mere papilio of the day,
Was seen around the fields to rove,
And haunt, by turns, the stream and grove:
A silver zone entwin’d his head,
His belly shone with lively red,
His wings were green, but studded o’er
With gold-embroider’d spots before.