Poem 94

NAthlesse the cruell boy not so content,

would needs the fly pursue:

And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment,

him caught for to subdue.

But when on it he hasty hand did lay,

the Bee him stung therefore:

Now out alasse (he cryde) and welaway,

I wounded am full sore:

The fly that I so much did scorne,

hath hurt me with his little horne.