Cupid once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
Luckless urchin not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee;
The bee awaked — with anger wild
The bee awaked, and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies;
„O mother — I am wounded through —
I die with pain — in sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing —
A bee it was — for once I know,
I heard a rustic call it so.”
Thus he spoke, and she the while
Heard him with a soothing smile;
Then said, „My infant, if so much
Thou feel the little wild-bee’s touch,
How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be,
The hapless heart that’s stung by thee?”