Men Nature in her secret Work behold,
Untwist her Fibres, and her Coats unfold;
With Pleasure trace the Threds of stringy Roots,
The various Textures of the ripening Fruits;
And Animals, that careless live at ease,
To whom the Leaves are Worlds, the Drops are Seas.
If to the finish'd Whole so little goes,
How small the Parts, that must that Whole compose!
Matter is infinite, and still descends:
Man cannot know where lessening Nature ends.
The azure Dye, which Plums in Autumn boast,
That handled fades, and at a Touch is lost,
(Of fairest Show) is all a living Heap;
And round their little World the lovely Monsters creep.
Who would on Colour dote, or pleasing Forms,
If Beauty, when discover'd, is but Worms?
When the warm Spring puts forth the op'ning Bud,
Th'awaken'd Insects find their ready Food;
But when the Summer Days dilate the Gem,
Stretch out the Leaves, and fix the growing Stem,
They dye unknown, and num'rous Kinds succeed,
That bask in Flow'rs, or eat the ranker Weed;
Wanton in sultry Heat, and keep their Place,
Till Autumn-Fruits produce a different Race.