The Wounded Cupid. Song

Cupid, as he lay amongRoses, by a bee was stung;Whereupon, in anger flyingTo his mother, said thus, crying:Help! oh help! your boy's a-dying.And why, my pretty lad, said she?Then, blubbering, replied he:A winged snake has bitten me,Which country people call a bee.At which she smiled; then, with her hairsAnd kisses drying up his tears:Alas! said she, my wag, if thisSuch a pernicious torment is,Come tell me then, how great's the smartOf those thou woundest with thy dart!