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Heaps of hair-rings, and cypher'd seals;
Rich trifles ; serious bagatelles.

What fad disorders play begets !
Desperate and mad, at length he sets
Those darts, whose points makes gods adore
His might, and deprecate his power :
Those darts, whence all our joy and pain
Arise : those darts Come, seven's the main,
Cries Ganymede : the usual trick :
Seven, flur a fix; eleven : a nick.

Ill news goes fast : 'twas quickly known,
That simple Cupid was undone.
Swifter than lightning Venus flew :
Too late the found the thing too true,
Guess how the goddess greets

her son :
Come hither, sirrah ; no, begone ;
And, hark ye, is it so indeed?
A comrade you for Ganymede ?
An imp as wicked, for his age,
As any earthly lady's page ;
A scandal and a scourge to Troy :
A prince's fon; a black-guard boy,
A sharper, that with box and dice
Draws in young deities to vice.
All Heaven is by the ears together,
Since first that little rogue came hither :
Juno herself has had no peace :
And truly I 've been favour'd less :
For Jove, as Fame reports (but Fame
Says things not fit for ine to name),



Has acted ill for fuch a gods
And taken ways extremely odd.

And thou, unhappy child, the faid,
(Her anger by her grief allay'd)
Unhappy child, who thus halt loft
All the estate we e'er could boast;
Whither, O whither wilt thou run,
Thy name despis'd, thy weakness known?
Nor shall thy fhrine on earth be crown'd;
Nor fhall thy power in Heaven be own'd;
When thou nör man nor god canft wound.

Obedient Cupid kneeling cried,
Cease, deareft mother, cease to chide :
Gany's a chear, and I'm a bubble :
Yet why this great excess of trouble ?
The dice were false : the darts are gone :
Yet how are you, or I, undone ?

The loss of these I can supply
With keener shafts from Cloe's eye :
Fear not we e'er can be disgrac'd,
While that bright magazine shall laft:
Your crouded altars still shall smoke ;
And man your friendly aid invoke :
Jove shall again revere your power,
And rise a Twan, or fall a shower,






S after noon, one summer's day,

Venus stood bathing in a river ;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new fill’d his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart,

With all his might his bow he drew;
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too-well-guided arrow flew.

I faint ! I die! the goddess cried :

O cruel, could'st thou find none other,
To wreck thy spleen on ? parricide !
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;

Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye :
Alas ! how easy my mistake?
I took


likeness Cloe.



HEN Cloe's picture was to Venus shown;

Surpriz’d, the goddess took it for her own.
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked seen?

II. Pleas's

Pleas’d Cupid heard, and check'd his mother's pride :
And who's blind now, Mamma? the urchin cried.
'Tis Cloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast :
Friend Howard's genius fancied all the rest.

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F wine and mufick have the power

To ease the sickness of the soul;
Let Phoebus every string explore ;

And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl.
Let them their friendly aid employ,

To make my Cloe's absence light;
And seek for pleasure, to destroy

The sorrows of this live-long night.

But she to-morrow will return:

Venus, be thou to-morrow great ;
Thy myrtles strow, thy odours burn ;

And meet thy favourite nymph in state.
Kind goddess, to no other powers

Let us to-morrow's blessings own :
Thy darling loves shall guide the hours ;

And all the day be thine alone,



Tantæne animis coelestibus iræ;"


I. IN 'N Virgil's sacred verse we find,

That pafaon can depress or raise
The heavenly, as the human mind :
Who dare deny what Virgil says ?

But, if they should, what our great master

Has thus laid down, my tale fhall prove :
Fair Venus wept the fad difafter
Of having lost her favourite Dove.

In complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;

His grief reliev'd his mother's pain ;
He vow'd he'd leave no stone unturn'd,
But the should have her Dove again.

Though none, said he, shall yet be namid,

I know the felon well enough:
But be the not, Mamma, condemn'd
Without a fair and legal proof.

With that, his longest dart he took,

As conftable would take his staff:
That gods desire like men to look,
Would make ev'n Heraclitus laugh.


VI. Love's


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