Classic Poem

From THEOCRITUS .

As Cupid in a flow'ry Valley stray'd,
Where Bees around their Hives in Clusters play'd,
The Honey's fragrant Scent allur'd his Nose,
And to the Hive, the groaping Archer goes.
Boldly he thrusts his roguish Fingers in —
Nor in that Heaven of Sweets could fear a Sting —
But soon he merited, and met his Fate,
Repenting of his Roguery, too late;
And now, in vain, he frets, he stamps, he tears
The flowing Honours of his waving Hairs;
Deep is the Wound, alas! what can he do!
Revenge he Vows, but then he fears the Foe?
Now, swift as Thought, to Ida 's Grove he flies,
And thus, complaining, to his Mother cries,
Alas! Mamma, what Pain my Hand endures!
O take it, kiss it, cool it, rub 't with yours.
Searching for Honey, I this Torment found,
Small was the Author, but O! deep the Wound —
To whom the Mother Goddess thus reply'd,
Unkindly laughing, while poor Cupid cry'd.

Fie, fie, is this your Courage, mighty Love!
And is a Bee a stronger Foe than Jove ?
Hence Child, compassionate each Lover's Heart,
Since you are conquer'd by so small a Dart.