On being refused a Lady's company to a Ball, the following was sent

A BEE, the loveliest of her kind, Whose words were honey of the mind, Had slown about from blows to blows, And now was resting on a rose. Her seat and beauty caught the eye Of one, as chance was, passing by; He asked admittance; but the Fair Refused him an admittance there. He cried; why wouldst thou live alone; And thus politely say, begone; While we could real bliss enjoy, With nothing to that bliss annoy? Yet I'll not sob and groan and cry, And tell you I'm a going to die, For 'twould be a confounded lie, I may perhaps some other find, That suits, as well as you, my mind, And is a hundred times more kind.