So tuneful Insects fed by Morning Dew,
Who in warm Meads the daily Song renew;
(True Poets they) laugh at approaching Want,
And careless sing, and mock the lab'ring Ant;
But soon bleak Colds the wanton Throng surprize,
And the whole Race (ah! too unpity'd) dies:
And yet returning Heat, and sultry Days,
Restore the Species, and new Songsters raise.