Young Cupid, on a day,
'Mid roses, as he lay,
Was wounded by a bee;
To his mother hurried he;
'O mother,' thus he said,
'I am slain-I am dead!
A wing'd serpent small,
Which I think a bee they call,
Has stung my finger here,
And I greatly, greatly fear
With the pain I shall expire,
For my hand is hot as fire.'
'O silly Cupid, fie!'
Thus his mother made reply,
'If such weapon as a sting
Of a bee can hurt you so,
Away, child, you should fling
Your arrows and your bow.'