And the bright Bull receives the rolling year,
Another tribe, to different fates assigned,
In ampler cells their giant limbs confined,
Burst through the yielding wax, and wheel around
On heavier wing, and hum a deeper sound.
No sharpened sting they boast; yet, buzzing loud,
Before the hive, in threatening circles, crowd
The unwieldy drones. Their short proboscis sips
No luscious nectar from the wild thyme's lips;
From the lime's leaf no amber drops they steal,