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As from a hive the thieving Eros drew
A honey-comb, a bee his finger stung ; Then in his anguish on his hand he blew,
Stamped, jumped — and then to Cytherea sprung ;
Shewed her the wound, and cried : “ A thing how wee,
How great a wound makes with its little sting!” His mother smiled : “ Art thou not like a bee,
Such great wounds making—such a little thing ? ”
The poet introduces a cowherd heavily complaining of the con.
tempt with which a damsel of the city bad repelled his addresses. He inveighs against her pride, and comforts himself with the reflection that her scorn proceeded not from his own unworthiness, or want of personal recommendations, but from his belonging to a class, some individuals of which had been beloved even by goddesses. He prays that, since she is so difficult to please, she may ever sleep alone.
EUNICA, smiling with a bitter scoff,
Thrice on her breast she spat, these hard words saying, Me scornfully from head to foot surveying ;