Fel in melle
Lo CUPID here, the honie hyes to taste,
On whome, the bees did straight extende their power:
For whilst at will he did their labours waste,
He founde that sweete, was sauced with the sower:
And till that time hee thought no little thinges,
Weare of suche force: or armed so with stinges.
The hyves weare plac'd accordinge to his minde,
The weather warme, the honie did abounde.
And CUPID judg'd the bees of harmelesse kinde,
But whilste he tri'de his naked corpes they wounde:
And then to late his rashe attempte hee ru'de,
When after sweete, so tarte a taste insu'de.
So ofte it happes, when wee our fancies feede,
And only joye in outwarde gallant showes.
The inwarde man, if that wee doe not heede,
Wee ofte, doe plucke a nettle for a rose:
No baite so sweete as beautie, to the eie,
Yet ofte, it hathe worse poyson then the bee.