Classic Poem

Happy Insect , what can bee
In happiness compar'ed to Thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Mornings gentle Wine !
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant Cup does fill,
'Tis fill'd where ever thou dost tread,
Nature selfe's thy Ganimed .
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier then the happiest King !
All the Fields which thou dost see,
All the Plants belong to Thee ,
All that Summer Hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer He , and Land-Lord Thou!
Thou doest innocently joy,
Nor does thy Luxury destroy;
The Shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More Harmonious then Hee .
Thee Countrey Hindes with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phaebus loves, and does inspire;
Phaebus is himself thy Sire .
To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer then thy Mirth .
Happy Insect , happy Thou,
Dost neither Age , nor Winter know.
But when thou'st drunk, and danc'ed, and sung,
Thy fill, the flowry Leaves among,
( Voluptuous , and Wise with all,
Epicuraean Animal !)
Sated with thy Summer Feast ,
Thou retir'est to endless Rest .