Young Cupid, on a day, <br />'Mid roses, as he lay, <br />Was wounded by a bee; <br />To his mother hurried he; <br />'O mother,' thus he said, <br />'I am slain-I am dead! <br />A wing'd serpent small, <br />Which I think a bee they call, <br />Has stung my finger here, <br />And I greatly, greatly fear <br />With the pain I shall expire, <br />For my hand is hot as fire.' <br />'O silly Cupid, fie!' <br />Thus his mother made reply, <br />'If such weapon as a sting <br />Of a bee can hurt you so, <br />Away, child, you should fling <br />Your arrows and your bow.'<br /><br />Peter John Allan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-anacreon-2/
