To Cupid, a foolish Poet, occasion'd by as foolish a Poem of his to a bona Roba

Good Cupid, I must tell you truly,
Had it not been for Abram Cowley,
You, and your Ode, had come off blewly.

With other Thefts, that shall be nameless,
Because their Authors should be blameless;
Although your Worship's somewhat shameless.

Could such a spatious Beauty want
Matter her native worth to paint,
That thy Dull Muse was grown so scant?

As thus to steal from other Muses,
When thine own Wit, at need, refuses,
Elogies for such pious Uses?

Out of her Shoulders, or her Haunches,
Thou surely might'st have Collopt Fancies,
Enough for Millions of Romances.

From any part thou might'st find matter,
Enough the brightest she to flatter;
But that she cannot hold her Water,

Was such a Saying of a Bard,
As (doubtless) yet was never heard,
By Man that Verses made; or mar'd.

Thou should'st have told her she was tight,
Strong built, well tackled, new and light;
Fitted for Stoage, and for Fight.

But on what Mount was thy Muse Nurst?
Of Block-heads thou art sure the worst,
To say she sprang a Leak at first!

Cupid, I doubt me (not to flatter)
By your ill handling of the Matter,
You're but a simple Navigator.

She's such a Vessel that who'll swim her,
Steer, and Man out, Carine, and trim her,
Must be no Youth of your small Timber.

Then leave thy Rhiming, and be Quiet,
I tell the She's not for thy Diet,
Thou hast another Hulk to ply out:

And hope (thou Dunce) for no rewarding,
She's not so lean to need thy larding,
And thou a Poet worth a Farthing.