Classic Poem

On thy verdant Throne elate,
Lovely Insect! there in State,
Nectar'd Dew you sip, and sing,
Like a little happy King.

All thou see'st so bloomy-fine,
Lovely Insect, all is thine!
Which the painted Fields produce,
Or the soft-wing'd Hours profuse.

Swains adore thy guiltless Charms,
None thy blissful Revel harms.
Thee, sweet Prophet! all revere,
Thou foretell'st the ripen'd Year.

By the Muses thou'rt carest,
Thou'rt by golden Phaebus blest;
He indulg'd thy tuneful Voice,
Age ne'er interrupts thy Joys.

Wisest Offspring of the Earth!
Thou for nothing car'st but Mirth;
Free from Pain, and Flesh, and Blood,
Thou'rt almost a little God.