The yoke uneasy on the ox doth sit Till by degrees his stubborn neck does bow. So Love’s opposers do at last submit And gladly drudge at the accustom’d plough.
“A bee upon a briar-rose hung And wild with pleasure suck’d and kiss’d; A flesh-fly near, with snout in dung, Sneer’d, ‘What a Transcendentalist!’”
Coventry Patmore | “The Flesh-Fly and the Bee”
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