Sometimes I wish that I his pillow were
So might I steal a kiss and yet not seen,
So might I gaze upon his sleeping eyen,
Although I did it with a panting fear.
But when I well consider how vain my wish is,
"Ah, foolish bees," think I, "that do not suck
His lips for honey, but poor flowers do pluck
Which have no sweet in them, when his sole kisses
Are able to revive a dying soul—Kiss him, but sting him not, for if you do
His angry voice your flying will pursue.
But when they hear his tongue, what can control
Their back-return? For then they plain may see
How honeycombs from his lips dropping be.
—Richard Barnfield (1574-1620)