XIII

4 0 00

XIII

But, for the general award of love,

The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;

Though Dido silent is in under-grove,

And Isabella’s was a great distress,

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove

Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less⁠—

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,

Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.