From Eight Glees expressly composed for ladies, Op. 4.

Lyrics: "The poetry from no.473 of The Spectator"

Belinda, see from yonder flowers
The bee flies loaded to its cell.
Can you perceive what it devours;
Are they impaired in show or smell?

So, though I robbed you of a kiss
Sweeter than their ambrosial dew,
Why are you angry at my bliss,
Has it at all impov'rished you?