Epigram 13. Of Cupid

Beauty is but opinion of the Liker;
And Cupid's no good archer, but a striker.
His rage he strangly doth employ, and parts
(At random carelesly) with all his darts;
And all these mischiefs, and these miseries
We do impute unto his want of eyes:
But we may bless our fates that he is blind;
Else war (for beauty) would destroy mankind.