new supplies,
  And in the common stock unlades his thighs. 
  Some watch the food, some in the meadows ply,
  Taste every bud, and suck each blossom dry;
  Whilst others, labouring in their cells at home,
  Temper Narcissus’ clammy tears with gum,
  For the first groundwork of the golden comb;
  On this they found their waxen works, and raise
  The yellow fabric on its gluey base.
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  Some educate the young, or hatch the seed
  With vital warmth, and future nations breed;
  Whilst others thicken all the slimy dews,
  And into purest honey work the juice;
  Then fill the hollows of the comb, and swell
  With luscious nectar every flowing cell. 
  By turns they watch, by turns with curious eyes
  Survey the heavens, and search the clouded skies,
  To find out breeding storms, and tell what tempests rise. 
  By turns they ease the loaden swarms, or drive
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  The drone, a lazy insect, from their hive. 
  The work is warmly plied through all the cells,
  And strong with thyme the new-made honey smells. 
     So in their caves the brawny Cyclops sweat,
  When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge they beat,
  And all the unshapen thunderbolt complete;
  Alternately their hammers rise and fall;
  Whilst griping tongs turn round the glowing ball. 
  With puffing bellows some the flames increase,
  And some in waters dip the hissing mass;
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  Their beaten anvils dreadfully resound,
  And AEtna shakes all o’er, and thunders under-ground. 
     Thus, if great things we may with small compare,
  The busy swarms their different labours share. 
  Desire of profit urges all degrees;
  The aged insects, by experience wise,
  Attend the comb, and fashion every part,
  And shape the waxen fret-work out with art: 
  The young at night, returning from their toils,
  Bring home their thighs clogged with the meadows’ spoils.
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  On lavender and saffron buds they feed,
  On bending osiers and the balmy reed,
  From purple violets and the teile they bring
  Their gathered sweets, and rifle all the spring. 
     All work together, all together rest,
  The morning still renews their labours past;
  Then all rush out, their different tasks pursue,
  Sit on the bloom, and suck the ripening dew;
  Again, when evening warns them to their home,
  With weary wings and heavy thighs they come,
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  And crowd about the chink, and mix a drowsy hum. 
  Into their cells at length they gently creep,
  There all the night their peaceful station keep,
  Wrapt up in silence, and dissolved in sleep. 
  None range abroad when winds and storms are nigh,
  Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky,
  But make small journeys with a careful wing,
  And fly to water at a neighbouring spring;
  And lest their airy bodies should be cast