And as within the close-roof’d hive, the drones,
Helpers of sloth, are pamper’d by the bees;
These all the day, till sinks the ruddy sun,
Haste on the wing, “their murmuring labours ply,”
And still cement the white and waxen comb:
Those lurk within the cover’d hive, and reap
With glutted maw the fruits of others’ toil;
Such evil did the Thunderer send to man
In woman’s form, and so he gave the sex,
Ill helpmates of intolerable toils.