 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
AMOUR. 26.
Cupid, dumbe Idoll, peevish Saint of love,
No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be,
No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth prove,
Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.
No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be,
No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth prove,
Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.
Thy Bowe halfe broke, is peec'd with olde desire,
Her Bowe is beauty, with ten thousand strings,
Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire:
The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.
Her Bowe is beauty, with ten thousand strings,
Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire:
The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.
Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)
Hydes in those christall quivers of her eyes,
More Arrowes with hart-piercing mettel poynted,
Then there be starres at midnight in the skyes.
With these, she steales mens harts for her reliefe,
Yet happy he thats robd of such a thiefe.
Hydes in those christall quivers of her eyes,
More Arrowes with hart-piercing mettel poynted,
Then there be starres at midnight in the skyes.
With these, she steales mens harts for her reliefe,
Yet happy he thats robd of such a thiefe.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |