Classic Poem

When Cupid once the little Thief would play,
And search'd a Hive to steal the Combs away;
A watchful Bee that in her waxen Cell,
To guard her Nectar then stood Centinel,
Wounded his Fingers as they still drew near,
And to the head bury'd her poyson'd Spear;
He cry'd, and stamp'd, and frisk'd, and blow'd his hand,
And to his Mother of the Bee complain'd;
He sobb'd, and wonder'd how there could be found
A Fly so small to make so great a wound;
But Venus laugh'd to see how Cupid cry'd,
And thus at length she smilingly reply'd:
Thou'rt like this Bee, my Child, a little Brat,
But great the wound you make, I'm sure of that.