From the musk-rose, wet with dew,
And the lilly's opening bell,
From fresh eglantine she drew
Sweets of aromatic smell:
Part of that honey next she took,
Which Cupid too adventurous stole,
When stung his throbbing hand he shook,
And felt the anguish to his soul;
His mother laught to hear the elf complain,
Yet still she pity'd, and reliev'd his pain;
She drest the wound with balm of sovereign might,
And bath'd him in the well of dear delight:
Ah who would fear to be so bath'd in bliss,
More agonizing smart, and deeper wounds than this?