Is in the cruel shambles slain.
The swarms who, with industrious skill,
His hives with wax and honey fill,
In vain whole summer days employed—
Their stores are sold, their race destroyed.
What tribute from the Goose is paid?
Does not her wing all science aid?
Does it not lovers’ hearts explain,
And drudge to raise the merchant’s gain?
What now rewards this general use?