See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins
Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves! most hard
Appears ‘his’ lot, to the small Worm’s compared,
For whom his toil with early day begins.
Acknowledging no task-master, at will
(As if her labour and her ease were twins)
‘She’ seems to work, at pleasure to lie still;
And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.
So fare they, the Man serving as her Slave.
Ere long their fates do each to each conform:
Both pass into new being, but the Worm,
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave;
‘His’ volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend
To bliss unbounded, glory without end.
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