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 his 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 
