Beneath your straight and rapid dart
The foe will tumble, turn, depart,
And leave you victor, to report
Your doings at the Queen Bee’s court.
And proudly may you bare your brow,
In presence of your sovereign bow,
And tell her why you came so late,
Thus panting, to the palace gate;
And show your limbs of wax bereft,
Your right arm crushed, and sprained the left,