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Section 1300
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Pan.
A goodly medicine for mine aking bones: oh world,
world, world!
thus is the poore agent dispisde: Oh trai
tours and
bawdes; how earnestly are you set aworke, and
how ill requited?
why should our indeuour be so desir'd,
and the performance so
loath'd? What Verse for it? What
instance for it? let me
see.
Full merrily the humble Bee doth sing,
Till he hath lost his hony, and his sting.
And being once subdu'd in armed taile,
Sweete hony, and sweete notes together faile.