Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their Master's flower, but leave it having done,
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Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their Master's flower, but leave it having done,
As fair as ever and as fit to use;
So both the flower doth stay and honey run.

You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee.

You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee.

Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
. . . .
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Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
. . . .
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.

For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away
I'le seek him in your read more

For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away
I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave,
I'le seek him in your eyes.

The honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather read more

The honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his winter song,
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips,
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness closely pressed
Within the poison chalice.

The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved, in a tear of the
sisters of Phaeton, so that it seems read more

The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved, in a tear of the
sisters of Phaeton, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar.
It has obtained a worthy reward for its great toils; we may
suppose that the bee itself would have desired such a death.

As busie as a Bee.

As busie as a Bee.

The solitary Bee
Whose buzzing was the only sound of life,
Flew there on restless wing,
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The solitary Bee
Whose buzzing was the only sound of life,
Flew there on restless wing,
Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?