The Honey-stealer; or the Xixth Idyllium of Theocritus

As Cupid, the slyest young wanton alive, Of its hoard of sweet honey was robbing a hive, The sentinel bee buzz'd with anger and grief, And darted his sting in the hand of the thief. He sobb'd, blew his fingers, stamp'd hard on the ground, And leaping in anguish show'd Venus the wound; Then began in a sorrowful tone to complain, That an insect so little should cause so great pain. Venus smiling, her son in such taking to see, Said, "Cupid, you put me in mind of a bee; " You're just such a busy, diminutive thing, " Yet you make woeful wounds with a desperate sting."