To own that like Fanny no woman was fair.
A Bee from the garden—oh, what could mislead him?—
Stray’d through the lattice new dainties to seek,
And lighting on Fanny, too busy to heed him,
Stung the sweet maid on her delicate cheek.
Smarting with pain, round the chamber she sought him,
Tears in her eyes, and revenge in her heart,
And angrily cried, when at length she had caught him,
“Die for the deed, little wretch that thou art!”
Stooping to crush him, the hapless offender