Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

                            WHAT the bee is to the flowert,

            He. — When he looks for honey-dew,

                            Through the leaves that close embower it,

                                  That, my love, I’ll be to you.

                            What the bank, with verdure glowing,

            She. — Is to waves that wander near,

                            Whispering kisses, while they’re going,

                                  That I’ll be to you, my dear.

                            But they say, the bee’s a rover,

            She. — Who will fly, when sweets are gone,

                            And, when once the kiss is over,

                                  Faithless brooks will wander on.

                            Nay, if flowers will lose their looks

            He. — If sunny banks will wear away,

                            ’Tis but right that bees and brooks

                                  Should sip and kiss them, while they may.