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WHILST
And thrust his hand into the tree, a bee with him did meete.
The boye no harme did doubt, vntill he felt the stinge:
But after to his mother ranne, and ofte his handes did wringe.
And cry'd to her for helpe, and toulde what happe befell:
Howe that a little beast with pricke, did make his finger swell.
Then
Doe hurte so sore: thinke howe thou hurt'st? that art a childe to see.
For where the bee can pierce no further then the skinne:
Thy dartes do giue so great a wounde, they pierce the harte within.
AS
A busie bee that crept therein vnseene,
The wanton wagge with poysoned stinge assay's:
Whereat, aloude he cri'de, throughe smarte , and teene.
And sought about, his mother for to finde:
To whome, with griefe he vttered all his minde.
And say'd, behoulde, a little creature wilde,
Whome husbandmen (I heare) doe call a bee,
Hath prick'd mee sore alas: whereat shee smil'de,
And say'd: my childe, if this be griefe to thee,
Remember then, althoughe thou little arte?
What greeuous wounde, thou makest with thy darte.