An Ode to Love

Dull Love no more thy Senceless Arrows prize,
Damn thy Gay Quiver, break thy Bow;
‘Tis only young Lysanders Eyes,
That all the Arts of Wounding know.

A Pox of Foolish Politicks in Love,
A wise delay in Warr the Foe may harme:
By Lazy Siege while you to Conquest move;
His fiercer Beautys vanquish by a Storme.

Some wounded God, to be reveng’d on thee,
The Charming Youth form’d in a lucky houre,
Drest him in all that fond Divinity,
That has out-Rivall’d thee, a God, in Pow’r.

Or else while thou supinely laid
Basking beneath som Mirtle shade,
In careless sleepe, or tir’d with play,
When all thy Shafts did scatterd ly;
Th’unguarded Spoyles he bore away,
And Arm’d himself with the Artillery.

The Sweetness from thy Eyes he took,
The Charming Dimples from thy Mouth,
That wonderous Softness when you spoke;
And all thy Everlasting Youth.

Thy bow, thy Quiver, and thy Darts:
Even of thy Painted Wing has rifled thee,
To bear him from his Conquer’d broken Hearts,
To the next Fair and Yeilding She.