For A

How doth the little busy Bee

Improve, each Shining Hour,

And gather Honey all the day

From every opening Flower!


How skilfully she builds her Cell!
How neat she spreads the Wax!
And labours hard to store it well

With the sweet Food she makes.


In Works of Labour or of Skill
I would be busy too:
For Satan finds some Mischief still

For idle Hands to do.


In Books, or Work, or healthful Play

Let my first Years be past,

That I may give for every Day

Some good Account at last.


– Isaac Watt

How beautifully destructive this is…


p.s. how ghetto is that rhymin’ giirrrl


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