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Go, perjured man; and if thou e'er return To see the small remainders in mine urn, When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust, And ask: where's now the colour, form and trust Of woman's beauty? and with hand more rude Rifle the flowers which the virgins strewed: Know I have prayed to Fury that some wind May blow my ashes up, and strike thee blind.

Cupid, as he lay among Roses, by a bee was stung; Whereupon, in anger flying To his mother, said thus, crying: Help! oh help! your boy's a-dying. And why, my pretty lad, said she? Then, blubbering, replied he: A winged snake has bitten me, Which country people call a bee. At which she smiled; then, with her hairs And kisses drying up his tears: Alas! said she, my wag, if this Such a pernicious torment is, Come tell me then, how great's the smart Of those thou woundest with thy dart!