  What stupid nonsense must the Beauty Endure in her diurnal duty— Buzzings and whispers from the stores Of the fatuities of bores! Yet such impertinence must be pleasing, Or Beauty would resent such teazing. A flap will drive a fly away, A frown will drive a dog to bay: So if the insects are persistent 'Twas Beauty that was inconsistent! And if she does not know herself, Blame not the persecuting elf. It chanced upon a summer day That Boris in her boudoir lay— She the last work of God's fair creatures, Contemplated her faultless features. A wasp assailed her so reclined, Bred of a persecuting kind. He now advanced, and now retreated, Till Beauty's neck and face grew heated; She smote him with her fan: she said Wasps were excessively ill bred. But the wasp answered her: "Alas! Before you blame me, view your glass. 'Twas beauty caused me to presume; Those cherry lips, that youthful bloom, Allured me from the plums and peaches To Beauty, which the soul o'erreaches." "Don't hit him, Jenny!" Doris cried: "The race of wasps is much belied; I must recant what I have said,— Wasps are remarkably well bred." Away Sir Sting fled, and went boasting Amongst his fellows—Doris toasting; And as his burgundy he sips, He showed the sugar on his lips. Away the greedy host then gathered, Where they thought dalliance fair was feathered. They fluttered round her, sipped her tea, And lived in quarters fair and free; Nor were they banished, till she found That wasps had stings and felt the wound. |
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