The poem
NAthlesse the cruell boy not so content, would needs the fly pursue: And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment, him caught for to subdue. But when on it he hasty hand did lay, the Bee him stung therefore: Now out alasse (he cryde) and welaway, I wounded am full sore: The fly that I so much did scorne, hath hurt me with his little horne.