Fly to my Mistresse, pretty pilfring Bee, And say, thou bring'st this Hony-bag from me: When on her lip, thou hast thy sweet dew plac't, Mark, if her tongue, but slily, steale a taste. If so, we live; if not, with mournfull humme, Tole forth my death; next, to my buryall come. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 3 by GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS FIRST FIG by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY TO HELEN KELLER by TOSCAN BENNETT SCARABAEUS SISYPHUS by MATHILDE BLIND NIAGARA by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE SHRINE by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |