Look how the industrious bee in fragrant May,
When Flora gilds the earth with golden flowers,
Enveloped in her sweet perfumed array,
Doth leave his honey-limed delicious bowers,
More richly wrought than princes' stately towers,
Waving his silken wings amid the air,
And to the verdant gardens makes repair.

First falls he on a branch of sugared thyme,
Then from the marigold he sucks the sweet,
And then the mint and then the rose doth climb,
Then on the budding rosemary doth light,
Till with sweet treasure having charged his feet,
Late in the evening home he turns again,
Thus profit is the guerdon of his pain.