 | Miscellaneous poems |  |
91
CUPID's Revenge.
By the Same.
As thro' the Woods Panthea stray'd,
And sought, in vain, her wand'ring Sheep,
Beneath a Myrtle's verdant Shade,
She found the God of Love asleep.
And sought, in vain, her wand'ring Sheep,
Beneath a Myrtle's verdant Shade,
She found the God of Love asleep.
His Bow unbent, beneath his Head,
Beside his empty Quiver lay,
His golden Arrows round him spread,
Toss'd by the Winds in wanton Play.
Beside his empty Quiver lay,
His golden Arrows round him spread,
Toss'd by the Winds in wanton Play.
92
With Terror struck, the Nymph recedes,
And softly on her Tiptoes trod;
Malice, at length, to Fear succeeds,
And she returns, and robs the God.
And softly on her Tiptoes trod;
Malice, at length, to Fear succeeds,
And she returns, and robs the God.
As to purloin his Bow, she tries,
Of all his scatter'd Shafts possess'd,
The beamy Lustre of her Eyes,
Play'd on his Face, and broke his Rest.
Of all his scatter'd Shafts possess'd,
The beamy Lustre of her Eyes,
Play'd on his Face, and broke his Rest.
Cupid awaking, scarce descry'd,
'Twixt Slumber and Surprize, the Maid,
And rub'd his drowzy Lids, and cry'd,
Who thought the Sun could pierce this Shade?
'Twixt Slumber and Surprize, the Maid,
And rub'd his drowzy Lids, and cry'd,
Who thought the Sun could pierce this Shade?
At length, recover'd from his Fright,
Thus his mistaken Thoughts express'd,
Art thou return'd, my soft Delight?
Approach, my Psyche, to my Breast.
Thus his mistaken Thoughts express'd,
Art thou return'd, my soft Delight?
Approach, my Psyche, to my Breast.
93
The frighted Virgin scarcely view'd,
Sprung from his Sight with eager Haste,
No trembling Hare by Hounds pursu'd,
Or fear'd so much, or fled so fast.
Sprung from his Sight with eager Haste,
No trembling Hare by Hounds pursu'd,
Or fear'd so much, or fled so fast.
Seeking a Shaft, to stop her Flight,
He found himself of all bereft;
His Loss soon set his Knowledge right,
And shew'd the Plund'rer by the Theft.
He found himself of all bereft;
His Loss soon set his Knowledge right,
And shew'd the Plund'rer by the Theft.
Panthea stop, aloud he cries,
Why would'st thou, Fair One, fly from me?
Restore my Arrows, thine own Eyes
Have Darts as sharp, enough for Thee.
Why would'st thou, Fair One, fly from me?
Restore my Arrows, thine own Eyes
Have Darts as sharp, enough for Thee.
Unmov'd by this, her Pace she mends,
Regardless of his Pain, or Care,
Th'intreating God no more attends,
Than if 't had been some Lover's Pray'r.
Regardless of his Pain, or Care,
Th'intreating God no more attends,
Than if 't had been some Lover's Pray'r.
94
Cupid provok'd, for Vengeance tries—
My Leaden Shafts, these are not lost;
Within my Pow'r the Method lies,
And thou shalt find it to thy Cost.
My Leaden Shafts, these are not lost;
Within my Pow'r the Method lies,
And thou shalt find it to thy Cost.
Enjoy thy Plunder, use my Darts,
Thy Crime shall be thy Punishment,
At random wound despairing Hearts,
Nor for the Pangs you give, relent.
Thy Crime shall be thy Punishment,
At random wound despairing Hearts,
Nor for the Pangs you give, relent.
Beauty was made to be enjoy'd,
I'll marr the End for which 'twas giv'n,
Fill up with Pride thy Reason's void,
And useless make that Gift of Heav'n.
I'll marr the End for which 'twas giv'n,
Fill up with Pride thy Reason's void,
And useless make that Gift of Heav'n.
Still Cruelty shall taint thy Breast,
And all thy smiling Hopes destroy;
In all my Mother's Beauty drest,
Be thou a Stranger to her Joy.
And all thy smiling Hopes destroy;
In all my Mother's Beauty drest,
Be thou a Stranger to her Joy.
95
Since all the Shafts thy Glances throw
Shall still be poison'd with Disdain,
Nor shalt thou e'er the Pleasure know
Of Loving, and being Lov'd again.
Shall still be poison'd with Disdain,
Nor shalt thou e'er the Pleasure know
Of Loving, and being Lov'd again.
Secure in Scorn thy Charms shall lie,
Bloom unenjoy'd, untasted fade,
Till thou at last repenting die,
An old, ill-natur'd, envious Maid:
Bloom unenjoy'd, untasted fade,
Till thou at last repenting die,
An old, ill-natur'd, envious Maid:
He said—And from his Quiver drew
A Leaden Hate-procuring Dart,
And brac'd his Bow, from whence it flew,
Unerring to the Fair One's Heart.
A Leaden Hate-procuring Dart,
And brac'd his Bow, from whence it flew,
Unerring to the Fair One's Heart.
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