FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 
81 
without making the sweetest music,—when, as an 
old poet nearly three hundred years ago, in his 
“Golden Legacy,” beautifully said,— 
“Love in my bosom, like a bee, 
Doth suck bis sweet; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 
Now with his feet; 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amid my tender breast, 
My kisses are his daily feast. 
And yet he robs me of my rest. 
“And if I sleep, then pierceth he 
With pretty slight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee 
The live-long night; 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; 
He music plays if I but sing ; 
He lends me every lovely thing, 
Yet, cruel he, my heart doth sting.” 
G 
