Untitled This is a text
Out of the Greek

Cupid's Cryer.

        Love is lost, nor can his Mother
        Her little fugitive discover :
        She seeks, she sighs, but no where spyes him ;
        Love is lost ; and thus she crys him.
            O yes ! if any happy eye,
        This roving wanton shall descry :
        Let the finder surely know
        Mine is the wage ; Tis I that owe
        The winged wand'rer, and that none
10    May think his labour vainely gone,
Untitled This is a text         The glad descryer shall no miss,
        To taste the Nectar of a kiss
        From Venus lips.  But as for him
        That brings him to me, he shall swim
        In riper joys : more shall be his
        (Venus assures him) than a kiss ;
        But lest your eye discerning slide
        These marks may be your judgements guide ;
        His skin as with a fiery blushing
20    High-colour'd is ; His eyes still flushing
        With nimble flames, and though his mind
        Be ne're so curst, his Tongue is kind :
        For never were his words in ought
        Found the pure issue of his thought.
        The working Bees soft melting Gold,
        That which their waxen Mines enfold,
        Flow not so sweet as do the Tones
        Of his tun'd accents ; but if once
        His anger kindle, presently
30    It boyles out into cruelty,
        And fraud : He makes poor mortals hurts,
        The objects of his cruel sports.
        With dainty curls his froward face
        Is crown'd about  But O what place,
        What farthest nooke of lowest Hell
        Feeles not the strength, the reaching spell
        Of his small hand ?  Yet not so small
        As 'tis powerful therewithall.
        Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,
40    And like a saucy Bird he hovers
        With wanton wing, now here, now there,
        'Bout men and women, nor will spare
        Till at length he perching rest,
        In the closet of their brest.
        His weapon is a little Bow,
        Yet such a one as (Jove knows how)
        Ne're suffred, yet his little Arrow,
        Of Heavens high'st Arches to fall narrow.
        The Gold that on his Quiver smiles,
50    Deceives mens feares with flattering wiles.
        But O (too well my wounds can tell)
        With bitter shafts 'tis sauc't too well.
        He is all cruel, cruel all ;
        His Torch Imperious though but small
        Makes the Sun (of flames the sire)
        Worse than Sun-burnt in his fire.
        Wheresoe're you chance to find him
        Cease him, bring him, (but first bind him)
        Pity not him, fut fear thy self
60    Though thou see the crafty Elfe,
        Tell down his Silver-drops unto thee,
        They're counterfeit, and will undo thee.
        With baited smiles if he display
        His fawning cheeks, look not that way
        If he offer sugred kisses,
        Start, and say, The Serpent hisses.
        Draw him, drag him, though he pray
        Woe, intreat, and crying say
        Prethee, sweet now let me go,
70    Here's my Quiver Shafts and Bow,
        I'll give thee all, take all, take heed
        Lest his kindness make thee bleed.
            What e're it be Love offers, still presume
            That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume.