Published in Twelve Arietts, Oxford, 1735.

Lyrics: "The words taken out of The Spectator" [no. 473]

Belinda, see from yonder flow'rs
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?

'Tis by this cunning I contrive,
In spite of your unkind reserve,
To keep my famish'd love alive,
Which you inhumanely would starve.