Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies

KHPIOKΛEΠTHΣ: OR THE Nineteenth IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

CVpid, the slyest Rogue alive, One day was plundring of a Hive: But as with too too eager Haste He strove the liquid Sweets to taste, A Bee surpriz'd the heedless Boy; Prick'd him, and dash'd th' expected Joy. The Urchin, when he felt the Smart Of the envenom'd angry Dart, He kick'd, he flung, he spurn'd the Ground; He blow'd, and then he chaf'd the Wound:

He blow'd and chaf'd the Wound in vain! The rubbing still increas'd the pain. Straight to his Mothers Lap he hyes, With swelling Cheeks, and blubber'd Eyes. Cry's she—What does my Cupid ail? When thus he told his mournful Tale. A little Bird they call a Bee, With yellow Wings; see, Mother, see How it has gor'd, and wounded me! And are not you, reply'd his Mother, For all the World just such another? Just such another angry thing, Like in bulk and like in Sting. For when you aim a poys'nous Dart, Against some poor unwary Heart, How little is the Archer found! And yet how wide, how deep the Wound!