Cupid, the slyest rogue alive,
One day was plund'ring of a hive,
But as with too, too eager haste,
He strove the liquid sweets to taste,
A bee surpris'd the heedless boy,
Prick'd him and dash'd the expected joy.
The urchin, when he felt the smart
Of the envenom'd, angry dart,
He kick'd, he flung, he spurn'd the ground,
He blow'd, and then he chaf'd the wound,
He blow'd, and chaf'd the wound in vain,
The rubbing still increas'd the pain.
Straight to his mother's lap he hies,
With swelling cheeks and blubber'd eyes.
Cries she "What does my Cupid ail?"
When thus he told his mournful tale,
"A little bird they call a bee,
With yellow wings, see, mother, see,
How it has gor'd and wounded me!"
"And are not you," replied his mother,
"For all the world just such another,
Just such another peevish thing,
Like in bulk, and like in sting?
For when you aim a pois'nous dart
Against some poor unwary heart,
How little is the archer found,
And yet how wide, how deep the wound!"