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 comminglèd,
As whether—this I cannot tell—
My sight was pleas'd 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.