XIII

But, for the general award of love,

      The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;

Though Dido silent is in under-grove,

      And Isabella's was a great distress,

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove

      Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less—

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,

Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.