4 
When she roam’d with her Sylphs, in the ev’ning hours, 
To fold up the leaves of her delicate flow’rs: 
For as soon as we lose the bright lustre of day, 
When the crimson of evening is changing to grey, 
And the curtain of hea ’n grows sable in hue, 
She feeds them with honey and bathes them in dew ! 
But sore was her anger and sad her dismay, 
To find how her flow’rets had faded away; 
How many were wounded and droop’d on the stem, 
And she wish’d Beauty’s child might be wither’d like them; 
Nay, she vow’d she would make the young Archer repent, 
That his arrows were plum’d or his little bow bent— 
But she sought him in vain—the truant had flown 
To play with the Graces round Venus’s throne! 
The wrath of that goddess ’twere rash to incur, 
To offend the fair child, would draw clouds upon her ; 
For once, when a Rose proffer’d honey to sip 
The Bee most indignantly stung his red lip ; 
And thus, to avenge him, the stings of the Bees 
By Venus were turn’d into thorns on the trees. 
Besides it was known Love was jealous of late, 
No card had been sent him to Flora’s last Fite ; 
