ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ𓏲࣪ ˖ . ׁ໋Methought I heard a butterfly say to a labouring bee, thou hast no colours of the sky on painted wings, like me. Poor child of vanity! those dyes, and colours bright and rare, with mild reproof, the bee replies, are all beneath my care. Shoals of fish assemble and scatter, suddenly there is no trace of them. The single butterfly comes goes comes returning as though urged by love.ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ