Sometimes I wish that I his pillow were, So might I steale a kisse, and yet not seene, So might I gaze upon his sleeping eine, Although I did it with a panting feare: But when I well consider how vaine my wish is, Ah foolish bees (thinke I) that doe not sucke His lips for hony; but poore flowers doe plucke Which have no sweet in them: when his sole kisses, Are able to revive a dying soule. Kisse him, but sting him not, for if you doe, His angry voice your flying will pursue: But when they heare his tongue, what can controule, Their back-returne? for then they plaine may see, How hony-combs from his lips dropping bee. |