Power, alas! nought but misery brings.
I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy,
Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings.
I’d be a butterfly, &c.
What though you tell me each gay little rover,
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day,
Surely ’tis better when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away:
Some in life’s winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay.