 | Poems (1872) |  |
85
II. THE BUZZEINGE BEE'S COMPLAYNT.
1
It was a time when sely bees coulde speake,And in that time, I was a sely bee,
Who suckt on time, vntill my hart did breake,
Yet neuer found the time would fauoure me:
Of all the swarme I only could not thriue,
Yett brought I wax and honye to the hyue.
2
Then thus I buzzd when time no sapp would giue:Why is this blessed tyme to me so drye?
Sith in this time the busy drone doth liue,
The waspe, the worme, the gnatt, the butter-flye:
Mated with Greife I kneelèd on my knees
And thus complaynèd to the kinge of bees.
3
God graunt my Leige Thye time maye neuer ende,And yet vouchsafe to heare my playnte of Time,
Wch euery fruyctlesse fly hath found a frende,
And I caste downe, when Attomyes doe clyme:
The kinge replyed but this, ‘peace peevyshe bee,
Borne thou art to serue the time, the tyme not thee.
86
4
‘The tyme not thee’: the worde clipt short my wingeAnd made me worme-like stoope that once did flye:
Awefull regard disputeth not with kinges,
Receues repulse, and neuer asketh whye:
Then from the tyme, a tyme I me with drewe,
To sucke on hen bane, hemlocke, netteles, rewe.
5
Whilst all the swarme in sunshine taste the rose;On blacke fearnse roote I seeke and sucke my bayne;
Whilst on the eglantayn the reste repose
To light on wormewoode leaues they me constrayne;
Hauinge to much they still repyne for more
And cloyed with swetnesse surfeyte on their store.
6
Swolne fatt wth feasts full merryly they passeIn sweetenod clusters fallinge on a tree,
Where findinge me to nybble on the grasse
Some scorned, some mused, and some did pyty me.
And some me enuied, and whispered to the kinge
Some must be still, and some must haue no sting.
87
7
Ar bees waxt waspes, and spyders, to afflycte? areDoe hony bowells make the spiritts galle?
Is this the iuce of flowers to flie suspecte?
Is't not enough to treade on them that fall?
What stinge hath Patience but a single greife
That stings nought but it self wth out releefe.
8
Sad Patience, that attendeth at the dore,And teacheth wise-men thus conclude in schooles:
Patience I am, and therfore must be poore:
Fortune bestowes her riches not on fooles.
Great kinge of bees that righteth euery wronge
Listen to Patience in her dyinge songe.
9
I cannot feede on fenell like some flyesNor flye to euery flower to gather gayne:
My appetyte wayts on my Prince's eyes
Contented with contempt, and pleasèd with all payne:
And yet expectinge for a happye hower
When shee may say the bee may sucke a flower.
10
Of all my greefes that most my patience grateTher's one that fretteth in the hyest degree;
To see some catterpillers brede of late
88
Yet smilèd I, for that the wisest knowes
Moaths eate the cloth, cankers consume ye rose.
11
Once did I see by flyinge in the feildeFoule beasts to browse upon the lyllys fayer;
Vertue nor Beautye could no succoure yelde.
All's prouender to the asse but the ayere:
The partyall worlde takes very carelesse heede
To giue them flowers that would on thistles feede.
12
Thus only I must drayne Egiption flowers,Findinge no sauore; bitter sapp they haue.
And seeke out rotten tombes, the dead mens bowers
And byte on Lotus growinge by the graue.
If this I cannot haue, as heppelesse Bee
Wishèd, Tabacco I will flee to thee!
13
What thoughe thou dye my loungs in deepest blacke?A morninge habite sutes a sable harte:
What thoughe thy fumes, sound memorys dos cracke?
Forgetfulnes is fittest for my smarte.
89
That words, hope, witts, and all the world, is smoke.
14
Ffiue years twice tould, wth promases perfum'd,My hope-stuffte heede was caste into a slumber;
Sweete dreams of golde; on dreames I then presum'd
And 'mongst the bees thought I was in the number.
Late wakinge, hyues, hopes, had made me vayne,
Was but Tabacco stupyfied my brayne,
| Poems (1872) | |