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Charles Lamb - The Butterfly
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SISTER.
Do, my dearest brother John,
Let that butterfly alone.


BROTHER.
  What harm now do I do?
You`re always making such a noise—


SISTER.
O fie, John; none but naughty boys
  Say such rude words as you.


BROTHER.
Because you`re always speaking sharp:
On the same thing you always harp.
  A bird one may not catch,
Nor find a nest, nor angle neither,
Nor from the peacock pluck a feather,
  But you are on the watch
To moralize and lecture still.


SISTER.
And ever lecture, John, I will,
  When such sad things I hear.
But talk not now of what is past;
The moments fly away too fast,
Though endlessly they seem to last
  To that poor soul in fear.


BROTHER.
Well, soon (I say) I`ll let it loose;
But, sister, you talk like a goose,
  There`s no soul in a fly.


SISTER.
It has a form and fibres fine,
Were tempered by the hand divine
  Who dwells beyond the sky.
Look, brother, you have hurt its wing—
And plainly by its fluttering
  You see it`s in distress.
Gay painted coxcomb, spangled beau,
A butterfly is called, you know,
  That`s always in full dress:
The finest gentleman of all
Insects he is—he gave a ball,
  You know the poet wrote.
Let`s fancy this the very same,
And then you`ll own you`ve been to blame
  To spoil his silken coat.


BROTHER.
Your dancing, spangled, powdered beau,
Look, through the air I`ve let him go:
  And now we`re friends again.
As sure as he is in the air,
From this time, Ann, I will take care,
  And try to be humane.
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