For this they hoard up glew, whofe clinging drops, At other times th' induftrious infects live Point all their chinky lodging round with mud, Nor rotten marshes send out fteams of mire; Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle in the fire. Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound. When th' under-world is feized with cold and night, 'The bees thro' woods and forests take their flight. The cryftal brook, and fip the running stream: } } And thus they feed their young with ftrange delight. And knead the yielding wax, and work the flimy sweet. But when on high you fee the Bees repair, Borne on the wind, thro' distant tracts of air, And view the winged cloud all blackening from afar; And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice. Од On brazen veffels beat a tinkling found, And shake the cymbals of the goddess round; The warm refounding hollow of their cell. If once two rival kings their right debate, At laft, when all the heav'ns are warm and fair, Swarm thick, and echoes with the humming war. A little duft flung upwards will allay. } Bus But when both kings are settled in their hive, The lazy monarch must be doom'd to die ; And reign without a rival in his throne. The kings are diff'rent: one of better note, That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails: Others look loathsome and diseas'd with floth, Grows dry with heat, and spits a maukish froth. From their o'erflowing combs, you'll often prefs And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse. } } But when they sport abroad, and rove from home, Clip their king's wings, and if they stay behind Nor found a march, nor give the fign for flight. Let Let flow'ry banks entice 'em to their cells, And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er, And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twisted grafs; Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o'er, Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the fhore; Nor daffodils, that late from earth's flow womb Unrumple their fwoln buds, and shew their yellow bloom. For once I faw in the Tarentine vale, Where flow Galefus drencht the washy foil, A few neglected acres to his lot, Where neither corn nor pasture grac'd the field.; But } But fav'ry herbs among the thorns were found, Vervain and poppy-flow'rs his garden crown'd, And drooping lilies whiten'd all the ground. Bleft with these riches he cou'd empires flight, And when he refted from his toils at night, The earth unpurchas'd dainties would afford, And his own garden furnith out his board: The fpring did first his opening rofes blow, Firft ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough. When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone, And freezing rivers ftiffen'd as they run, He then would prune the tender'ft of his trees, Chide the late fpring, and lingring western breeze: His bees firft fwarm'd, and made his veffels foam With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb. Here lindons and the fappy pine increas'd; Here, when gay flow'rs his fmiling orchard dreft, As many bloffoms as the fpring cou'd fhow, So many dangling apples mellow'd on the bough. In rows his elms and knotty pear-trees bloom, And thorns ennobled now to bear a plumb, And spreading plane-trees, where fupinely laid He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the shade. But thefe for want of room I must omit, And leave for future Poets to recite. Now I'll proceed their natures to declare, Which Jove himself did on the bees confer; Because, |