To Venus quick he runs, he flies!
“Oh, mother!—I am wounded though—
I die with pain—in sooth I do,
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing—
A bee it was—for once I know
I heard a rustic call it so.”
Thus he spoke, and she the while
Heard him with a soothing smile;
Then said, “My infant, if so much