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day as roguish Cupid from

A hive was stealing honey-comb,
A bee, disturbed in his abode,
Sharply stung the pilfering god.
Cupid shrieked in baby fashion

Sorely wept—and blew his fingers Stamped on the ground in pretty passion :

Near the hive no more he lingers, But flies


and shews his grief
To Venus. O 'twas past belief
That little monster of a bee
Could cause such horrid agony !

Venus, his sorrows to beguile,

As he sat sobbing on her knee, Said to him, with a rosy smile,

“ You are yourself just like the bee. Have you forgot the thousand smarts You wreak on mortals with


darts ? The tiny insect stings, 'tis true ; And such another monster you !”




LIB. V. 20.


TOULD we but live, my dearest brother,

For ourselves and one another, Disposers of our proper leisure, In blameless holiday and pleasure, We ne'er would haunt the great man's levée, Nor law-courts soured with pleadings heavy, Content in quiet to reside, Far from the imaginings of pride. For literary friends and talkLight exercise in shady walkAt proper times in proper places The gladiators and the racesThe bath—the stroll by Virgo's sourceWould satisfy our tastes of course : Such would our haunts be, such our neighbours, Such our extemporary labours.

Now, whilst we live for those alone
Who love us not, the day is gone;

The day that never can return :
O be life then our dear concern,
Nor let us to the Sun impute
The blame of haste, whilst we dispute.
Who, blest with means, and in the way
Of sweetening life, would brook delay ?



(Enter Love habited as a shepherd.)



HO could divine that in this human shape,

Veiled in these shepherd's weeds, a God lay hid ? No wood-god, or inferior rural power, But the most potent of the Gods above; Who can the red right hand of Mars disarm, And from the grasp of Neptune shake the trident, And quench the thunderbolts of Jove himself. Certes, in this disguise not readily Could Venus recognise her offspring Love. For from my mother am I fain to fly To hiding-places. She would make, forsooth, A slave of Love, to do her bidding only, Nor let me loose my shafts but when she lists ! She would confine me within kingly courts To aim at crowns and sceptres—bid me trust To lesser loves, my humbler ministers, The care of waging war, in woods and groves,

On churlish breasts : but I, in truth, no child,
Though child I seem in countenance and in deeds,
Am master of myself, and my own actions.
To me did fate allot, not to my mother,
The torch omnipotent, and golden bow.
But though I mock at her authority,
Who can resist a suppliant mother's prayers ?
Wherefore I fly and hide myself, and shoot,
In secret woods, and obscure villages,
At rustic hearts. Then comes she after me,
And those whom I have wounded lures aside
With promises, if they will yield me up,
Of kisses sweet, or something sweeter far.
As though I could not promise in revenge,
Or kisses sweet, or something sweeter far.
I will aver that kisses such as mine
Would please, far better please, the damsels, or
I, who am Love myself, know nought of love.
They will not yield me up, and keep their counsel ;
And that is why she hunts for me in vain.

But there are certain countermarks by which
I might be known: these have I laid aside-
My purple wings, my quiver, and my bow.
Yet think not that I stand unarmed before you.
This seeming rod of hazel is my torch,

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