Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/115

 Book IV. Unseen the mischief to the veins fast clings,

And their lives issue, where they leave their stings.

But if an harsher winter you presage,

And dread of future wants your thought engage,

Touch'd with their sinking state, and vigour spent,

Who would delay with thyme their hives to scent,

And the superfluous wax to pare away?

For on the combs oft lurking lizards prey;

The cells with beetles swarm; the vacant drone

Feeds at his ease on dainties not his own:

The teasing tribe of moths has rais'd alarms,

Or wasp intruded with unequal arms,

Or last Arachne, curst with Pallas' hate,

Has hung with waving webs the darken'd gate.

Fear not to spoil them of their treasur'd store;

With keener pains they'll labour to restore

Their wasted wealth; the plunder'd combs with care

Fill, and from rifled flow'rs the rooms repair.

But should they languish with some dire disease;

(For human ills are incident to bees;)

By surest signs the sickness may be seen;

The colour chang'd, the visage lank and lean:

Forth from the cells are born th' infectious dead,

And with due rites the pensive pomp is led: Or