Beneath the rose’s fragrant shade
A lurking bee in ambush laid
Unknown, unseen, poor Cupid stung,
He stamped, he raved, his hand he wrung:
Then swiftly ran and flew away
To where fair Cytherea lay.
The ichor on his finger stood,
While thus acclaimed the angry god:
I die, I perish, mother dear
Assuage, assuage the pain I bear
A serpent of the winged sort
Minute in form with venom fraught,
Has made this ghastly wound, behold!
It’s name I know not tho’ I’m told
The monster men Melissa call
And can a creature then so small?
Said the bright goddess smilingly,
And can the sting of a poor bee?
Give thee such sorrow and such pain.
Reflect my child, think o’er again
The wounds of those that feel thy darts,
Think’st thou that they no pain impart?