Classic Poem

THE BEE.

It was a tyme when silly Bees could speake
and in that time I was a silly Bee
who suckt on time, vntill the hart gan breake
yet never founde that tyme would fauour me
Of all the swarme I onely could not thriue
yet brought I wax & honey to the hiue

Then thus I busd when time no sap would giue
Why is this blessed tyme to me so dry
Sith in this tyme, the lazie Drone doth liue
y e waspe, the worme, the Gnat, the butterfly
Mated w th greif I kneeled on my knees
And thus complain'd vnto the Bees

My leige god grant thy time may haue no end
and yet vouchsafe to heare my plaint of tyme
Synce every fruitlesse fly hath found a freind
& I cast downe while Attomies doe clyme
The king replide but thus, peace peevish Bee
Thou art borne to serve the time, the time not thee

The time not thee, this word clipt short my wings
And made me worme-like creepe it once did fly
Awfull regard disputeth not w th kings
Receauethe a Repulse not asking why?
Then from the tyme, I for a tyme w th drew
To feed on Henbane, Hemlock, Nettles, Rue,

But from those leaues no dram of sweete I drayne
their head strong furry did my head bewitch
The ruice disperst black bloud in every veine
for hony gall, for wax I gathered pitch
My Combe a Rift, my hiue a leafe must bee
so chang'd; that Bees scarce took me for a Bee

I work on weedes when Moone is in the waine
whilst all the swarme in sunnshine tast the rose
onn black Roote ferne I sitt & sucke my baine
whilst on the Eglentine the rest repose
haueing too much they still repine for more
& cloyd w th fullnes surfeit on y eir store

Swolne fatt w th feasts full merrily they passe
In sweetned Clusters falling from the tree
where finding me to nibble on the grasse
some scorne, some muse, & some doe pitty me
And some envy & whisper to the king
Some must be still & some must haue no sting

Are Bees waxt waspes, or spiders to infect
Doe hony bowells make the sperit gall
Is this the iuce of flowers to stir suspect
Ist not enought to tread on them that fall
what sting hath patience but a sighing grief
nought but itselfe w th out Relief

True patience the prouender of fooles
sad patience that waiteth at the doore
Patience it learnes thus to conclude in schools
Patience I am therefore I must be poore
Great king of Bees it rightest euery wrong
Listen to patience in her dying song

I cannot feed on fennell like some flyes
nor fly to euery flower to gather gaine
myne appetite waites on my prince his eyes
Contented with contempt, & pleased w th payne
and yet expecting of an happy houre
when he shall say this Bee shall suck a flower

Of all the greifes it must my patience grate
there's one that fretteth in the high'st degree
To see some Catterpillers bred vp of late
cropping the fruit it should sustaine the Bee
yet smiled I, for it the wisest knowes
that mothes doe frett the Clothe Canker the Rose

Once did I see by flying in the feild
fowle beasts to browse vpon the Lilly fayre
Virtue & beauty could noe succour yeild
All's prouender for Asses, but the ayre
the partiall world of this takes litle heed

to giue them flowers it should on thistles feed

This onely I must draine Ægiptian flowers

haueing noe sauo r , bitter sap they haue
& seeke out Rotten Tombes & dead mens bowers
and bite on nightshade growing by the graue
If this I cannot haue, as hapless Bee
witching Tobacco I will fly to thee
what thoughe thou dy mens lungs in deepest black
A mourning habitt suites a sable hart
what if thy fumes sound memory doe crack
fforgettfullnes is fittest for my smart
o vertuous fume let it be graued in oke

y t wordes, hopes, witts & all the worlds but smoke

ffiue yeares twise told w th promises p r fume
my hope stuft head was cast into a slumber
Sweete dreames of gold, on dreames I then p r sume
& mongst the Bees thoughe I were in the number
waking I founde, hiues hopes had made me vaine

'Twas not Tobacco stupifyed the braine

Ingenium, studium, nummos, spem, tempus, amicos
Cum male perdiderim: perdere verba leue est.