Scene I. Garden.
[Observer:]
Honeybee, from flower to flower flee
Rest thy wearied wings, do let them rest.
Though time is gold, 'tis not golden to me
That drone impassive to thy beauty's best.
Automaton, its verdant cheeks betray
Such envy seeped in most deadly design
And leads thy wings too much astray
Then pales rosy cheeks and splendor divine.
Sacrilege! Yet by sanctity repelled.
Ageless time bears longer o'er beauty bold;
Ancient nature's law forever upheld,
That vibrant flutter turn to deathly cold.
So rest, my dear, stave its roguish hunger
Unceasing while beauty only lingers.
[Observer:]
Honeybee, from flower to flower flee
Rest thy wearied wings, do let them rest.
Though time is gold, 'tis not golden to me
That drone impassive to thy beauty's best.
Automaton, its verdant cheeks betray
Such envy seeped in most deadly design
And leads thy wings too much astray
Then pales rosy cheeks and splendor divine.
Sacrilege! Yet by sanctity repelled.
Ageless time bears longer o'er beauty bold;
Ancient nature's law forever upheld,
That vibrant flutter turn to deathly cold.
So rest, my dear, stave its roguish hunger
Unceasing while beauty only lingers.
[Honeybee:]
Thy own praticality precedes you.
Do not haste to stopper my flapping wings;
Thine two feet tread within time's self-same shoe,
Doomed calloused footstep in its wearing brings.
For what sense is rest if not senselessness?
That ruins taste, and sight, and smell, and feel
And hears nothing, for rest disdains that stress
Caring none for that which life pains to deal.
Toil as I may and labor as I might
I am not as lost as thy resting soul
That cries for hardship 'gainst that dulling blight
And bothers me in attempts to stay whole.
So watch less and labor more, lazy sloth
Whimper none and work for your worker's broth.
Thy own praticality precedes you.
Do not haste to stopper my flapping wings;
Thine two feet tread within time's self-same shoe,
Doomed calloused footstep in its wearing brings.
For what sense is rest if not senselessness?
That ruins taste, and sight, and smell, and feel
And hears nothing, for rest disdains that stress
Caring none for that which life pains to deal.
Toil as I may and labor as I might
I am not as lost as thy resting soul
That cries for hardship 'gainst that dulling blight
And bothers me in attempts to stay whole.
So watch less and labor more, lazy sloth
Whimper none and work for your worker's broth.
