The Flower-Gatherer

The lovely Chloe plucks a rose
From the gay garden where it grows,
And from its cup a wild bee flew,
Which from her lips drank honey too.
I heard it whisper, "This perfume
Is sweeter far than flow'ret's bloom."
Be gone, I say, thou miscreant bee!
That odorous cup is not for thee;
Those lips are sacred unto one;
Those sweets distill'd for me alone.