Cupid

What is he, who clad in arms,
Hither seems in haste to move,
Bringing with him soft alarms,
Fears the heart of man to prove;
Yet attended too by charms--
Is he Cupid, God of Love?

Yes, it is, behold him nigh,
Odd compound of ease and smart;
Near him stands a nymph, whose sigh
Grief and joy, and love impart;
Pleasure dances in her eye,
Yet she seems to grieve at heart.

Lo! a quiver by his side,
Arm'd with darts, a fatal store!
See him, with a haughty pride,
Ages, sexes, all devour;
Yet, as pleasure is describ'd,
Glad we meet the tyrant's power.

Doubts and cares before him go,
Canker'd jealousy behind;
Round about him spells he'll throw,
Scatt'ring with each gust of wind
On the motley crew below,
Who, like him, are render'd blind.

This is love! a tyrant kind,
Giving extacy and pain;
Fond deluder of the mind,
Ever feigning not to feign;
Whom no savage laws can bind,
None escape his pleasing chain.