The Hive of Bees

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My mistress is a hive a bees
In yonder flow'ry garden.
To her they come with laden thighs
To ease them of their burden.

As under the beehive lieth the wax,
And under the wax is honey,
So under her waist her belly is placed,
And under that her cunny.

My mistress is a mine of gold,
Would that it were her pleasure,
To let me dig within her mould,
And roll among her treasure.

As under the moss the mould doth lie,
And under the mould is money,
So under her waist her belly is placed,
And under that her cunny.

My mistress is a morn of May,
Which drops of dew-down stilleth,
Where e'er she goes to sport and play,
The dew-down sweetly trilleth,

As under the sun the mist doth lie,
So under the mist is sunny,
So under her waist her belly is placed,
And under that her cunny.

My mistress is a pleasant spring,
That yieldeth water sweet,
That doth refresh each withered thing
Lies trodden under feet.

Her belly is both white and soft,
And downy as a bunny,
That many gallants wish full oft
To play but with her cunny.

My mistress hath the magic sprays,
Of late she takes such pain,
That she can pleasing spirits raise,
And lay them down again.

Such power hath my tripping doe,
My pretty, little bunny,
That many would their lives forego,
To play but with her cunny.

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