Rosa and the Butterfly

"Ovid, the Roman Poet, had a wide vocabulary, a brilliant sense of METAPHOR, and told about the Metamorphoses. He emphasized that Justice and Peace defined the Golden Age. He added that in this age, men did not yet know the art of navigation and therefore did not explore the larger world. Further, no man had knowledge of any arts but primitive agriculture. In the Silver Age, Jupiter, or Thursday, introduces the seasons, and men consequently learn the art of agriculture and architecture. In the Bronze Age, Ovid wrote, men were prone to warfare, but not impiety. Finally, in the Iron Age, men demarcated nations with boundaries; they learned the arts of navigation and mining; they were warlike, greedy, and impious. Truth, modesty, and loyalty were nowhere to be found, " the Moon greeted with a Salaam, after saying Basmalah. 

Then she proceed, "What is become of that Ages, when Nature continually smiled on Humankind? That Golden Age, mentioned by Ovid, the picture of which still pleases and delights us? This is a sweet, though vain and fruitless Wish, 

But I do not here, recall those Serene Days, and calm and happy Nights, when Nature was most gay, beautiful and charming ; when Flora had more variety of Flowers, more fruits Pomona. This is not what gives me the least Chagrin or Uneasiness; no, I regret other Delights than these; naked Faith, and simple Candor, Virtues that possessed the Heart, and even an Ignorance of what was criminal and vitious.

Yes, these were the Treasures of this happy Age, when Discourse was not dress’d up with designing Art, nor Words and Thoughts, fatally separated by an eternal Divorce. And what? will someone say, 'Were these Creatures Men? So singular in their Conduct, and so different from us.

Yes, this was certainly the case, these good, honest people, were our Forefathers. And can you believe Gentlemen that you are their posterity? That you descended from such sincere ancestors? Nowadays, you give lessons of continual falsehood, everything is deceitful and corrupted. Oaths and Promises are meer songs; he is an ass that trust to the one, and a fool that keeps the other.

To see our selves in this unhappy states, makes us at present, regret no more the Golden Age. No, it would be too much, to wish for the return of those blest Hours. The utmost of my wishes is, to have the Bronze Age return, for at that Time, flourished, my beautiful Coquet.

Once upon a time, there was a Rose growing in a fine Garden, full of beautiful Flowers, which had an eager desire to triumph over all the blooming Flowers of the Spring.

A youthful Butterfly, with gay shining painted Wings, fit to be her Favourite, at the rising of the Sun, sighed out to her his tender passion. The Rosa, blushed and sighed. In those Days, it was not so as with us, no room for long delays, they soon struck up the bargain.

A youthful Butterfly, with gay shining painted Wings, fit to be her Favourite, at the rising of the Sun, sighed out to her his tender passion. The Rosa, blushed and sighed. In those Days, it was not so as with us, no room for long delays, they soon struck up the bargain.

'I am yours, my Soul,' says he, 'and I am always yours,' says she, 'my Dear, my Life, my All,' and swore forever to be true.

The contented Butterfly left her for a time, and did not return at noon. 'And are all your flames so lovely, so sincere, so soon grown cold and languid ? It is an Age—it was about three or four Hours—since you have paid your Vows to me, the Sworn Mistress of your Heart, the silliest and most awkward Flower alive, a wretch, no soul regards in this enclosure; but, swarthy as she is, it seems she has her Charms.

'Nay, you've caressed the senseless Tulip; paid your devotions to that yellow faced gill-flirt, the Jonquille, and the Tuberose with her flinking breath. Is thus you betray me, persidious creature? And are you pleased in doing so?'

Our young Master, theButterfly, answered her in the same stile. 'You do well, Madam, coquet as you are, thus to condemn my little Airs; but I have only done like you. For I must tell you, I am not such a blind Fool, but have taken notice of your volatile amours.

With what excess of pleasure, have I seen you smile at the endearing breathings of the amorous Zephire! This indeed, I could excuse. But not content with that, I’ve seen you, wonderfully pleased with the eager kissing of the Bee. This sweet Gentleman, had no sooner taken his leave, but like an Insatiate, you admitted the rude embraces of the clownish Hornet; nay, you have prostituted your self to every little scandalous Fly.' The young butterfly left, leaving the withered Rosa. 

Roses are red, violets are blue. When a rose dies, a thorn is left behind. The sharp thorn, often produces delicate roses. I recalled a poem, by the Irish poet, Thomas Moore, 'The Last Rose of Summer,'

'Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one.

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from love's shining circle

The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

The Moon took her leave, saying, "Providence in Love has so ordered it, that Justice should proportionably distributed to everybody. And Allah knows best."

Citations & References:
- Sieur De La Motte, One Hundred New Court Fables, Peter-Nofter-Row

- Sir Samuels Garth, Ovid's Metamorphoses, J.F. Dove

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