As from the Honeycomb one Day,
Young Cupid filch'd the Sweets away,
Intent on the felonious Wrong,
A watchful Bee his Fingers stung.
Impatient of the Smart and Pain,
He frets, and puffs, and stamps in vain.
To Venus in a Rage he flies,
And sniv'ling, see Mamma, he cries,
What Mischief lurks in little Things,
A scurvy Bee this Torment brings:
Shall such vile Insects, quoth the Boy,
The Pleasures of a God destroy?

While thus with peevish Rage he burn'd,
The Goddess, with a Smile return'd.

Cease, Child, thy Wonder at the hurtful Bee
A Pow'r more hurtful is repos'd in Thee,
Like that fierce Animal on slender Wings,
Thou roam'st abroad; thy Arrows are thy Stings:
Tho' small thy Stature seem, thy fatal Darts
Subdue Almighty Strength, and pierce immortal Hearts.