Love is lost, nor can his mother
Her little fugitive discover:
She seekes, she sighes, but no where spyes him;
Love is lost: and thus shee cryes him.
O yes! if any happy eye,
This roaving wanton shall descry;
Let the finder surely know
Mine is the wagge; 'tis I that owe
The winged wand'rer; and that none
May thinke his labour vainely gone,
The glad descryer shall not misse,
To tast the nectar of a kisse
From Venus lipps. But as for him
That brings him to me, he shall swim
In riper joyes: more shall be his
(Venus assures him) than a kisse.
But lest your eye discerning slide,
These markes may be your judgement's guide;
His skin as with a fiery blushing
High-colour'd is; his eyes still flushing
With nimble flames; and though his mind
Be ne're so curst, his tongue is kind:
For never were his words in ought
Found the pure issue of his thought.
The working bees' soft melting gold,
That which their waxen mines enfold,
Flow not so sweet as doe the tones
Of his tun'd accents; but if once
His anger kindle, presently
It boyles out into cruelty,
And fraud: he makes poor mortalls' hurts
The objects of his cruell sports.
With dainty curles his froward face
Is crown'd about: But O what place,
What farthest nooke of lowest Hell
Feeles not the strength, the reaching spell
Of his small hand? Yet not so small
As 'tis powerfull therewithall.
Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,
And like a saucy bird he hovers
With wanton wing, now here, now there,
'Bout men and women, nor will spare
Till at length he perching rest,
In the closet of their brest.
His weapon is a little bow,
Yet such a one as—Jove knows how—
Ne're suffred, yet his little arrow,
Of Heaven's high'st arches to fall narrow.
The gold that on his quiver smiles,
Deceives men's feares with flattering wiles.
But O—-too well my wounds can tell—
With bitter shafts 'tis sauc't too well.
He is all cruell, cruell all,
His torch imperious though but small
Makes the sunne—of flames the sire—
Worse than sun-burnt in his fire.
Wheresoe're you chance to find him
Ceaze him, bring him—but first bind him—
Pitty not him, but feare thy selfe
Though thou see the crafty elfe,
Tell down his silver-drops unto thee:
They'r counterfeit, and will undoe thee.
With baited smiles if he display
His fawning cheeks, looke not that way.
If he offer sugred kisses,
Start, and say, the serpent hisses.
Draw him, drag him, though he pray
Wooe, intreat, and crying say
Prethee, sweet, now let me go,
Here's my quiver, shafts and bow,
I'le give thee all, take all; take heed
Lest his kindnesse make thee bleed.
What e're it be Loue offers, still presume
That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume.