As the fleet bird, on airy pinions light,
From men to sighing maids he wings his flight;
Now here, now there, in many a circle strays,
Yet perching, on their vitals inly preys.
Lo! ready from his little bow to fly-
His arrow, swift though slight, can pierce the sky.
A golden quiver on his shoulder glows,
And holds the' imbitter'd darts for friends or foes.
E'en I their frequent wounds would vainly shun,
But his fell torch-its blaze e'en dims the sun!
If you secure the wanderer, bring him bound;
Nor mind him, though he cry and stamp the ground!
And trust him not, though smiling he appears;
Alike deceitful are his smiles and tears.
To kiss you, sweetly laughing, should he try,
Fly him—there's poison in his kisses-fly!
But if he
say: 'How idle your alarms!
Here-take my darts-my arrows-take my
Ah! touch them not-beware the treacherous His darts, his arrows, are all tipp'd with flame.'
ONCE Venus to Agenor's royal maid
A vision's airy portraiture display'd,
At that calm hour when night and morning meet;
When sleep, than honey's balmy drops more sweet,
Sits on the eyelids, and in tender ties
(Each limb relaxing) binds the cherish'd eyes;