187. The Shower of Blossoms
Love in a shower of blossoms cameDown, and half drown’d me with the same;The blooms that fell were white and red;But with such sweets commingled,As whether (this) I cannot tell,My sight was pleased more, or my smell;But true it was, as I roll’d there,Without a thought of hurt or fear,Love turn’d himself into a bee,And with his javelin wounded me;—From which mishap this use I make;Where most sweets are, there lies a snake;Kisses and favours are sweet things;But those have thorns, and these have stings.