A Black Patch on Lucasta's Face

Dull as I was, to think that a court fly
            Presum'd so neer her eye;
            When 'twas th' industrious bee
        Mistook her glorious face for paradise,
To summe up all his chymistry of spice;
  With a brave pride and honour led,
  Neer both her suns he makes his bed,
And, though a spark, struggles to rise as red.
            Then aemulates the gay
              Daughter of day;
      Acts the romantick phoenix' fate,
  When now, with all his sweets lay'd out in state,
    LUCASTA scatters but one heat,
And all the aromatick pills do sweat,
And gums calcin'd themselves to powder beat,
          Which a fresh gale of air
          Conveys into her hair;
          Then chaft, he's set on fire,
And in these holy flames doth glad expire;
      And that black marble tablet there
        So neer her either sphere
      Was plac'd; nor foyl, nor ornament,
But the sweet little bee's large monument.