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The tallest trees she ventured up,
And scal'd the vine-clad wall,
Singing and tasting every cup,
But temperate in all.
One morn, as from her honied cell,
'Mid Autumn's frost she sped,
Beneath a flowret's wither'd bell
The Butterfly lay dead.
The Lady-Bug and the Ant.
The Lady-Bug sat in the rose's heart,
And smil'd with pride and scorn,
As she saw a plain-drest Ant go by,
With a heavy grain of corn;
So, she drew the curtains of damask round,
And adjusted her silken vest,
