  “Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee. The bee awaked—with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; ‘Oh, mother—I am wounded through— I die with pain—in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing— A bee it was—for once I know, I heard a rustic call it so.’ Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, ‘My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild-bee’s touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid, be, The hapless heart that’s stung by thee!’” |
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