Classic Poem

Natures Confectioner, the Bee ,
Whose suckets are moyst Alchimie ,
The Still of his refining mould
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 ariv'd,
Where all delicious sweets are hiv'd.
The ayrie Free-booter distreins
First on the Violets of her Veins,
Whose tinckture, could it be more pure,
His ravenous Kiss had made it bluer.
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 ayr but once remov'd,
Tender as 'twere a Jellie 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 her Nectar and the Gods.
He perches now upon her wrist,
A Proper hawk for such a fist,
Making that flesh his bill of fare
Which hungry Canibals would spare;
Where Lillyes in a lovely brown
Inoculate Carnation.
He Argent skin with or so stream'd
As if the milky way were cream'd.
From hence he to the wood-bine bends
That quivers at her fingers ends,
That runs division on the tree
Like a thick branching pedegree.
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
I' th' fashion of a wedding ring,
And bids his Comrades of the swarm
Crawl as a brace-let 'bout her arm.
Thus when the hovering Publican
Had suck'd the Toll of all her span,
Tuning his draughts with drowsy hums,
As Danes carowse by Kettle-drums,
It was decreed, that posy glean'd,
The small familiar should be wean'd.
At this the Errants Courage quails,
Yet ayded by his native sayls
The bold Columbus still designes
To find her undiscovered mynes.
To th' Indies of her arm he flyes,
Fraught both with East and Western prize;
Which when he had in vain assayd,
Arm'd like a dapper Lance-presade
With Spanish pike, he broacht 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 waspe was't that could prove
Ravilliack to my Queen of Love ?
The King of Bees now's 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 Combes
Built rank and file, like Beads-mens rooms,
And what they bleed but tart and sowre
Matcht with my Danaes golden showre,
Live-Hony all, the Envyous Elfe
Stung her, cause sweeter than himself.
Sweetness and she are so ally'd
The Bee committed parricide.