 | Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow |  |
58
ODE XL.
[Love amid the roses play'd]
Love amid the roses play'd,
Of rosy thorns no whit afraid,
But had not the wit to see
Amid' the flowers a sleeping bee;
Stung by the bee, i' th' finger stung,
The meadows with his outcry rung.
Of rosy thorns no whit afraid,
But had not the wit to see
Amid' the flowers a sleeping bee;
Stung by the bee, i' th' finger stung,
The meadows with his outcry rung.
Running, flying, he repair'd
To fair Venus, golden-hair'd,
“O I am lost, Mamma!” he said,
“O I am lost, and I am dead!
“A little winged serpent hath
“Struck me in his fiery wrath!
“A serpent, O Mamma,” said he,
“Whom countrymen do call a bee.”
To fair Venus, golden-hair'd,
“O I am lost, Mamma!” he said,
“O I am lost, and I am dead!
“A little winged serpent hath
“Struck me in his fiery wrath!
“A serpent, O Mamma,” said he,
“Whom countrymen do call a bee.”
But then she said, “If thus the sting
“Of a bee such pain doth bring,
“How do you think they grieve, belike,
“O Love, most wretched, whom you strike?”
“Of a bee such pain doth bring,
“How do you think they grieve, belike,
“O Love, most wretched, whom you strike?”
| Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow | |