Violet to the Bee

 

O you false knight in shining mail,

Who visited my early hours-

My days are numbered by your scorn,

Since beauty spurns Love's flowers.

 

For true my charms are withered much,

And dry my body is and lax;

My eye like to a burning wick

That doth outlast its wax;

 

But for old time's sake look on me,

On your first love, who ne'er did fail

To give sweet favours when you came

'Scaped out of  Winter's jail.

 

Only Primrose was here and I

When April turned to hard hail-stones

The soft rain-drops, and you did make

In pity such deep groans.

 

But now the earth is peopled more,

And you have power to make love's choice;

You are much occupied these days,

I know it by your voice.

 

For when you lie on bosoms fair,

In blissful moments, you are dumb;

Which proves to me your many loves,

Since you now seldom hum.

 

You're in your highest heaven just now,

In apple blossoms overhead;

And your sweet sting it is will make

Those blossoms apples red.

 

Ah! I  care not how soon Death comes,

To bury me on this steep bank;

This flower of Life in other hand

Than Love'-Oh, it smells rank!