1 minute read
L'abeille. The Bee
THE BEE
To Francis de Miomandre.
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WHAT, and so fine, and yet so deadly, Whatever your sting is, golden bee, I have not, in my tender basket, Thrown anything but a dream of lace.
Puncture the handsome hollow breast, Upon which Love either sleeps or dies, So that a drop of my ruby self Comes to this smug rebellious flesh!
I have great need of a torment swift: An evil sudden and over soon Is better than a torture waiting!
Let then my senses be enlightened By this minuscule golden warning Without which Love is asleep or dies!
