Bion Idyl. 2

A Little Stripling once a shooting went,
And hot he was, and on his Game intent:
He spy'd the little blinking Buzzard, Love,
Sculking in a thick shady Myrtle Grove;
With joy and wonder struck, first stones he flung,
And then his Bow, sure of his Buzzard, strung:
Close by the Tree, a Fated Arrow drew,
But Love too quick, still to another flew,
And all the Archer's Policy would not do.
Then to a good old Man he did himself apply,
Told him the News, and shew'd Love perching up on high.
The Gaffer Plough-man smiling, shook his head,
Pleas'd with the fancy, to the Artist said,
Leave shooting, Youngster, and believe my words,
These are but feather'd Monsters, Beasts of Birds.
Were you at man's estate, he'd act your part;
Love's a damn'd Marks-man at a season'd heart.
Thô he flies now, then would he follow you,
And as a greedy Vultur close pursue.
You are too young, he's for a noble Prey;
Yet lest he take a liking to you, get you hence away.