'You wont!' the Rose's accents ring;
'I will!' the Golden Bee's are ringing;
And tho' the winds, to aid her, spring,
Soon with the breeze-tost bloom he's
swinging.
His prize secured, away he goes,
At which anon, in rage the rarest;
'Come back thou villain!' cries the Rose;
'Come once more kiss me, if thou darest!'