The poison on the darts

As love was busy raising stolen honey to his lips,

A bee flew out and poisoned his pretty fingertips.

The thief he dropped his booty and, tortured with the pain,

Ran sobbing off to Venus of his treatment to complain.

“Look, Mother, how I'm wounded by just one little bee.”

“What! have you learnt a lesson at last, my lad,” said she,

“Perhaps when you're preparing fresh arrows for our hearts,

You'll be a shade more sparing of the poison on the darts.”