A boy, greatly smitten with the colours of a Butterfly, pursued it from flower to flower with indefatigable pains. First, he aimed to surprise it among the leaves of a rose; then to cover it with his hat, as it was feeding on a daisy; now hoped to secure it, as it rested on a sprig of myrtle;[149] and now grew sure of his prize, perceiving it loiter on a bed of violets. But the fickle Fly, continually changing one blossom for another, still eluded his attempts. At length, observing it half buried in the cup of a tulip, he rushed forward, and snatching it with violence, crushed it all to pieces.
MORAL.
Pleasure, like the Butterfly,
Will still elude as we draw nigh;
And when we think we hold it fast,
Will, like the insect, breathe its last.
Will still elude as we draw nigh;
And when we think we hold it fast,
Will, like the insect, breathe its last.