Observing once, with secret spite,
The rustic maidens, wild with fright,
Fly from him when his arms he bore,
Revenge the wily Cupid swore;
And straight a stratagem design’d,
For Cupid’s malice is refined.
He seems a butterfly complete,
With down upon his baby feet;
His little arms are changed to wings;
And sportive into air he springs.
Now through the meadows he meanders,
And now from flower to flower he wanders;
Hovers o’er this, on that alights,
Whose honied cup his lip invites.
The maidens think him what he seems,
Not one of aught deceptive dreams,
And eager in the chase they strive:
One stoops to take him up alive,
As on the ground fatigue he feigns;
Again he flies and mocks her pains;
A second calls with accents kind;
Another panting lags behind.
He sees them in the contest warm,
Then starts into his proper form,
And sets their simple hearts on fire,
To gratify his childish ire.
But from that time, in love we see
The butterfly’s inconstancy.
Love tarries not, but onward springs;
Alas! the urchin kept his wings.