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The people's looks are different as their kings;
Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings;
Others look loathfom and difeas'd with sloth,
Like a faint traveller whofe dufty mouth

Grows dry with heat, and spits a maukish froth.
The firft are best-

From their o'erflowing combs, you'll often prefs
Pure lufcious sweets that mingling in the glafs
Correct the harshness of the racy juice,

And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse.

But when they sport abroad, and rove from home,
And leave the cooling hive, and quit th' unfinish'd comb;
Their airy ramblings are with ease confin'd,
Clip their king's wings, and if they stay behind
No bold ufurper dares invade their right,
Nor found a march, nor give the fign for flight.
Let flowery banks entice them to their cells,
And gardens all perfum'd with native smells;
Where carv'd Priapus has his fix'd abode,
The robber's terror, and the scare-crow god.
Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill
Transplant, and nurse them in the neighbouring foil.
Set fruit-trees round, nor e'er indulge thy floth,
But water them, and urge their shady growth.
And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er,
And striking fail, and making to the fhore,
I'd fhew what art the gardener's toils require,
Why rofy Pæftum blushes twice a year :
What streams the verdant fuccory fupply,
And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry;

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What with a chearful green does parfly grace,

And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twisted

grafs ;

Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o’er,

Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore ;
Nor daffodils, that late from earth's flow womb
Unrumple their fwoln buds,and fhow their yellowbloom.
For once I faw in the Tarentine vale,
Where flow Galefus drencht the washy foil,
An old Corycian yeoman, who had got
A few neglected acres to his lot,

Where neither corn nor pasture grac’d the field,
Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield;
But favory herbs among the thorns were found,
Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown'd,
And drooping lilies whiten'd all the ground.
Bleft with these riches he could empires flight,
And when he rested from his toils at night,
The earth unpurchas'd dainties would afford,
And his own garden furnish out his board :
The fpring did firft his opening rofes blow,
First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough.
When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone,
And freezing rivers stiffen'd as they run,
He then would prune the tenderest of his trees,
Chide the late spring, and lingering western breeze:
His bees firft fwarm'd, and made his veffels foam
With the rich fqueezing of the juicy comb.
Here lindons and the fappy pine increas'd;
Here, when gay flowers his finiling orchard dreft,

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As

As many bloffoms as the fpring could thow,

So many dangling apples mellow'd on the bough.
In rows his elms and knotty pear-trees bloom,
And thorns ennobled now to bear a plumb,
And spreading plane-trees, where fupinely laid
He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the fhade.
But thefe for want of room I must omit,

And leave for future poets to recite.

Now I'll proceed their natures to declare,
Which Jove himself did on the bees confer;
Because, invited by the timbrel's found,
Lodg'd in a cave th' almighty babe they found,
And the young god nurft kindly under-ground.
Of all the wing'd inhabitants of air,
Thefe only make their young the public care;
In well-difpos'd focieties they live,

And laws and statutes regulate their hive
Nor ftray, like others, unconfin'd abroad,
But know fet ftations, and a fix'd abode.
Each provident of cold in fummer flies

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Through fields, and woods, to seek for new fupplies,
And in the common stock unlades his thighs.
Some watch the food, fome in the meadows ply,
Taste every bud, and fuck each blossom dry;
Whilst others, labouring in their cells at home,
Temper Narciffus' clammy tears with gum,
For the first ground-work of the golden comb;
On this they found their waxen works, and raise
The yellow fabrick on its glewy base.

Some educate the young, or hatch the feed
With vital warmth, and future nations breed ;

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Whilft

Whilft others thicken all the flimy dews,

And into pureft honey work the juice;
Then fill the hollows of the comb, and fwell
With luscious nectar every flowing cell.

By turns they watch, by turns with curious eyes
Survey the heavens, and fearch the clouded skies
To find out breeding storms, and tell what tempefts rife.
By turns they eafe the loaden fwarms, or drive
The drone, a lazy infect, from their hive.

The work is warmly ply'd through all the cells,
And strong with thyme the new-made honey fmells.
So in their caves the brawny Cyclops sweat,
When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge they beat,
And all th' unfhapen thunder-bolt compleat;
Alternately their hammers rife and fall;

Whilft griping tongs turn round the glowing ball.
With puffing bellows fome the flames increase,
And fome in waters dip the hiffing mafs;
Their beaten anvils dreadfully refound,

And Ætna fhakes all o'er, and thunders under ground
Thus, if great things we may with finall compare,
The bufy fwarms their different labours share.

Defire of profit urges all degrees;

The aged infects, by experience wise,

Attend the comb, and fashion every part,

And shape the waxen fret-work out with art :

The young at night, returning from their toils,

Bring home their thighs clog'd with the meadows fpoils. On lavender and faffron-buds they feed,

On bending ofiers, and the balmy reed:

From

From purple violets and the teile they bring
Their gather'd sweets, and rifle all the spring.
All work together, all together rest.
The morning ftill renews their labours paft;
Then all rush out, their different tasks pursue,
Sit on the bloom, and fuck the ripening dew;
Again when evening warns them to their home,
With
weary wings, and heavy thighs they come,
And crowd about the chink, and mix a drowsy hum.
Into their cells at length they gently creep,
There all the night their peaceful station keep,
Wrapt up in filence, and diffolv'd in sleep.
None range abroad when winds and ftorms are nigh,
Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky,

But make small journeys, with a careful wing,
And fly to water at a neighbouring spring;
And, left their airy bodies fhould be caft
In restless whirls, the sport of every blast,
They carry stones to poise them in their flight,
As ballaft keeps th unsteady vessel right.

But of all customs that the bees can boaft,
"Tis this may challenge admiration moft;
That none will Hymen's fofter joys approve,
Nor waste their spirits in luxurious love,
But all a long virginity maintain,

And bring forth young without a mother's pain.
From herbs and flowers they pick each tender bee,
And cull from plants a buzzing progeny ;

From these they choose out fubjects, and create
A little monarch of the rifing state;

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