The poem
Love in a shower of blossoms came Down, 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.