Mary's Bee

As Mary with her lip of roses
Is tripping o'er the flowery mead,
A foolish little bee supposes
The rosy lip a rose indeed,
And so, astonish'd at his bliss,
He steals the honey of her kiss.
A moment there he wantons; lightly
He sports away on careless wing;
But ah! why swells that wound unsightly?
The rascal! he has left a sting!
She runs to me with weeping eyes,
Sweet images of April skies.
"Be this," said I, "to heedless misses,
A warning they should bear in mind;
Too oft a lover steals their kisses,
Then flies, and leaves a sting behind."
"This may be wisdom to be sure,"
Said Mary, "but I want a cure."
What could I dol To ease the swelling
My lips with hers impassion'd meet —
And trust me, from so sweet a dwelling,
I found the very poison sweet!
Fond boy! unconscious of the smart,
I sucked the poison to my heart!