FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. 
without making the sweetest music,— when, as an 
old poet, nearly three hundred years ago, id hia 
“Golden Legacy,” beautifully said,— 
" Love in my bosom, like a bee. 
Doth suck his sweet; 
Kov/ 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." 
