Fuscara; or, The Bee Errant

Nature's Confectioner the Bee,
(Whose Suckets are moist Alchimy;
The Still of his refining Mold
Minting the Garden into Gold)
Having rifled all the Fields
Of what Dainties Flora yields.
Ambitious now to take Excise
Of a more fragrant Paradise,
At my Fuscara's sleeve arriv'd,
Where all delicious Sweets are hiv'd.
The Airy Freebooter distrains
First on the Violet of her Veins,
Whose Tincture could it be more pure,
His ravenous kiss had made it blewer.
Here did he sit, and Essence quaff,
Till her coy Pulse had beat him off;
That Pulse, which he that feels may know
Whether the World's long liv'd, or no.
The next he preys on is her Palm,
That Alm'ner of transpiring Balm;
So soft, 'tis Air but once remov'd,
Tender as 'twere a Jelly glov'd.
Here, while his canting Drone-pipe scan'd
The mystick Figures of her hand,
He tipples Palmestry, and dines
On all her Fortune-telling Lines:
He bathes in Bliss, and finds no odds
Betwixt this Nectar and the Gods.
He pearches now upon her Wrist
(A proper Hawk for such a Fist)
Making that Flesh his Bill of Fare,
Which hungry Canibals would spare,
Where Lillies in a lovely brown
Inoculate Carnation.
Her Argent Skin with Or so stream'd,
As if the milky-way were cream'd;
From hence he to the Woodbine bends
That quivers at her fingers ends,
That runs division on the Tree,
Like a thick-branching Pedigree;
So 'tis not her the Bee devours,
It is a pretty Maze of Flowers.
It is the Rose that bleeds, when he
Nibbles his nice Phlebotomy.
About her finger he doth cling
Ith' fashion of a Wedding Ring,
And bids his Comrades of the Swarm
Crawl like a Bracelet 'bout her Arm,
Thus when the hovering Publican
Had suck'd the Toll of all her Span,
(Tuning his Draughts with drowsie Hums,
As Danes Carouze by Kettle-drums)
It was decreed (that Posie glean'd)
The small Familiar should be wean'd.
At this the Errant's Courage quails;
Yet ayded by his native Sails,
The bold Columbus still designs
To find her undiscover'd Mines.
To th' Indies of her Arm he flies,
Fraught both with East and Western Prize,
Which when he had in vain essay'd,
(Arm'd like a Dapper Lancepresade
With Spanish Pike) he broach'd a Pore,
And so both made and heal'd the Sore:
For as in Gummy Trees there's found
A Salve to issue at the Wound;
Of this her breach the like was true,
Hence trickled out a Balsom too.
But oh! What Wasp was't that could prove
Raviliack to my Queen of Love?
The King of Bees now jealous grown,
Lest her Beams should melt his Throne,
And finding that his Tribute slacks,
His Burgesses and State of Wax
Turn'd to an Hospital; the Combs
Built Rank and File, like Beadsmens Rooms,
And what they bleed but tart and sowre
Match'd with my Danae's golden showre,
Live Hony all, the envious Elf
Stung her, cause sweeter than himself.
Sweetness and She are so alli'd,
The Bee committed Paricide.
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