Cupid, in a bed of roses 
sleeping, chanced to be stung 
of a bee that lay among 
the flowers where he himself reposes. 
And thus to his mother, weeping. 
Told that he this wound did take 
of a little winged snake, 
as he lay securely sleeping. 
Cytherea, smiling, said 
that if so great sorrow spring 
from a silly bee's weak sting. 
As should make thee thus dismayed, 
what anguish feel they, think'st thou, and what pain, 
whom thy empoisoned arrows [bad word] ?