Cupids Artillery.
[I]
Alas poor Cupid! Art thou blind?
Canst nor thy Bow and Arrows find?
Thy Mother sure the Wanton playes,
And layes 'em up for Holydayes.
II
Then Cupid mark how kind I'le be,
Because thou once wert so to me;
I'le arm thee with such powerful darts,
Shall make thee once more god of hearts.
III
My Chloris Armes shall be thy bow,
Which none but Love can bend you know;
Her precious Haires shall make the String,
Which of themselves wound every thing.
Then take but Arrows from her Eyes,
And all you shoot at surely dyes.
