Cupid's Courtesie:
OR, THE
Young GALLANT Foil'd at his own Weapon.
He scorned Cupid and his Dart,
Until he felt a wounded Heart.
To a most pleasant Northern Tune, etc.
|
THro' the cool shady Woods,
|
as I was ranging,
|
I heard the pretty Birds
|
notes sweetly changing;
|
Down by a Meadow side,
|
there runs a River,
|
A little Boy I espy'd
|
with Bow and Quiver:
|
Little Boy, tell me why
|
thou art here diving?
|
Art thou some Run-away,
|
and hast no 'biding?
|
I am no Run-away,
|
Venus my Mother,
|
She gave me leave to play,
|
when I came hither.
|
Little Boy, go with me,
|
and be my Servant,
|
I will take care to see
|
for thy preferment.
|
If I with thee should go,
|
Venus would chide me,
|
And take away my Bow,
|
and ne'r abide me.
|
Little Boy, let me know
|
what's thy name termed,
|
That thou dost wear a Bow,
|
and go'st so armed?
|
You may perceive the same,
|
with often changing,
|
Cupid, it is my name,
|
I live by ranging.
|
If Cupid be thy name,
|
that shoots at Rovers,
|
I have heard of thy Fame,
|
by wounded Lovers:
|
Should any languish, that
|
are set on fire,
|
By such a naked Brat,
|
I much admire.
|
If thou dost but the least
|
at my Laws grumble,
|
I'll pierce thy stubborn breast,
|
and make thee humble:
|
If I with golden Dart
|
wound thee but surely,
|
There's no Physician's Art,
|
that e're can cure thee.
|
Little Boy, with thy Bow,
|
why dost thou threaten?
|
It is not long ago,
|
since thou was beaten.
|
Thy wanton Mother fair,
|
Venus, will chide thee;
|
When all thy Arrows are gone,
|
thou may'st go hide thee.
|
Of powerful Shafts you see
|
I am well stored,
|
Which makes my Deity
|
so much adored:
|
With one poor Arrow now
|
I'll make thee shiver,
|
And bend unto my Bow,
|
and fear my Quiver.
|
Dear little Cupid, be
|
courteous and kindly,
|
I know thou canst not hit,
|
but shootest blindly.
|
Although thou call'st me blind,
|
surely I'll hit thee,
|
That thou shalt quickly find
|
I'll not forget thee.
|
Then little Cupid caught
|
his Bow so nimble,
|
And shot a fatal Shaft,
|
which made him tremble:
|
Go, tell thy Mistress dear,
|
thou canst discover,
|
What all the Passions are
|
of a dying Lover.
|
And now his gallant Heart
|
sorely was bleeding,
|
And felt the greatest Smart
|
from Love proceeding:
|
He did her help implore,
|
whom he affected;
|
But found that more and more,
|
him she rejected.
|
For Cupid with his Craft,
|
quickly had chosen,
|
And with a leaden Shaft
|
her Heart had frozen;
|
Which caus'd this Lover more
|
sadly to languish,
|
And Cupids Aid implore
|
to heal his Anguish.
|
He humbly pardon crav'd
|
for his Offence past,
|
And vow'd himself a Slave,
|
and to Love steadfast:
|
His Prayers so ardent were,
|
while his Heart panted,
|
That Cupid lent an Ear,
|
and his Suit granted.
|
For by his present Plaint,
|
he was regarded,
|
And his adored Saint
|
his Love rewarded:
|
And now they live in Joy,
|
sweetly imbracing,
|
And left the little Boy
|
in the Woods chasing.
|
|
|
|
|
|