Classic Poem

Dull as I was, to think that a Court Fly,
Presum'd so neer her Eye;
When 'twas th'industrious Bee
Mistook her glorious Face for Paradise,
To summe up all his Chymistry of Spice;
With a brave pride and honour led,
Neer both her Suns he makes his bed;
And though a Spark struggles to rise as red:
Then AEmulates the gay
Daughter of Day,
Acts the Romantick Phoenix fate:
When now with all his Sweeets lay'd out in state,
Lucasta scatters but one Heat,
And all the Aromatick pills do sweat,
And Gums calcin'd, themselves to powder beat;
Which a fresh gale of Air
Conveys into her Hair;
Then chast he's set on fire,
And in these holy flames doth glad expire;
And that black marble Tablet there
So neer her either Sphere,
Was plac'd; nor foyl, nor Ornament,
But the sweet little Bees large Monument.