Its splendid Plumes, in grateful Order, show
The various Glories of the painted Bow.
Where Love directs, a Libertine it roves,
And courts the fair ones thro’ the verdant Groves.
How glorious now! How chang’d since Yesterday! }
When on the Ground, a crawling Worm it lay, }
Where ev’ry Foot might tread its Soul away! }
Who rais’d it thence? And bid it range the Skies?
Gave its rich Plumage, and its brilliant Dyes?
’Twas God:—Its God and thine, O Man, and He }