University of Virginia Library

IDYLLIUM I.

[In Search of her Son, to the listening Crowd]

In Search of her Son, to the listening Crowd,
T'other Day lovely Venus thus cry'd him aloud;
‘Whoever may chance a stray Cupid to meet,
‘My vagabond Boy, as he strolls in the Street,
‘And will bring me the News, his Reward shall be this,
‘He may freely demand of fair Venus a Kiss;
‘But if to my Arms he the Boy can restore,
‘He's welcome to Kisses, and something still more.
‘His Marks are so plain, and so many, you'll own
‘That among twenty others he's easily known.
‘His Skin is not white, but the Colour of Flame;
‘His Eyes are most cruel, his Heart is the same:
‘His delicate Lips with Persuasion are hung;
‘But, ah! how they differ, his Mind and his Tongue!
‘His Voice sweet as Honey; but nought can controul,
‘Whene'er he's provok'd, his implacable Soul.
‘He never speaks Truth, full of Fraud is the Boy;
‘And Woe is his Pastime, and Sorrow his Joy.
‘His Head is embellish'd with bright curling Hair;
‘He has confident Looks, and an insolent Air.
‘Though his Hands are but little, yet Darts they can fling
‘To the Regions below, and their terrible King.
‘His Body quite naked to View is reveal'd,
‘But he covers his Mind, and his Thoughts are conceal'd.
‘Like a Bird light of Feather, the Branches among,
‘He skips here and there, to the old, to the young,
‘From the Men to the Maids on a sudden he strays,
‘And hid in their Hearts on their Vitals he preys.
‘The Bow which he carries is little and light,
‘On the Nerve is an Arrow wing'd ready for Flight,
‘A little short Arrow, yet swiftly it flies
‘Through Regions of Æther, and pierces the Skies.
‘A Quiver of Gold on his Shoulders is bound,
‘Stor'd with Darts, that alike Friends and Enemies wound:
‘Ev'n I, his own Mother, in vain strive to shun
‘His Arrows—so fell and so cruel my Son,
‘His Torch is but small, yet so ardent its Ray,
‘It scorches the Sun, and extinguishes Day.
‘O you, who perchance may the Fugitive find,
‘Secure first his Hands, and with Manacles bind;
‘Show the Rogue no Compassion, though oft he appears
‘To weep—his are all hypocritical Tears.
‘With Caution conduct him, nor let him beguile
‘Your vigilant Care with a treacherous Smile.
‘Perhaps with a Laugh Kisses sweet he will proffer;
‘His Kisses are Poison, ah! shun the vile Offer.
‘Perhaps he'll say, sobbing: “No Mischief I know;
“Here take all my Arrows, my Darts and my Bow!”
‘Ah! beware, touch them not—deceitful his Aim;
‘His Darts and his Arrows are all tipt with Flame.’