From the AMINTA of TASSO

Tho' we, of small Proportion see And slight the armed Golden Bee; Yet if her Sting behind she leaves, No Ease th' envenom'd Flesh receives. Love, less to Sight than is this Fly, In a soft Curl conceal'd can lie; Under an Eyelid's lovely Shade, Can form a dreadful Ambuscade; Can the most subtil Sight beguile, Hid in the Dimples of a Smile. But if from thence a Dart he throw, How sure, how mortal is the Blow How helpless all the Pow'r of Art To bind, or to restore the Heart!