Classic Poem

Love, a Bee that lurkt among
Roses saw not, and was stung:
Who for his hurt finger crying,
Running sometimes, sometimes flying,
Doth to his fair Mother hie,
And oh help cries he, I dy;
A wing'd Snake hath bitten me,
Call'd by Countreymen a Bee:
At which Venus , if such smart
A Bees little sting impart,
How much greater is the pain
They whom thou hast hurt sustain.