Ode I: Love

AS lately on my sleepy Bed
I laid my sick and drowsie head,
And Night it self with me lay dead
The Heavens nodded, Nature snor'd,
When Winking Morpheus gave the word
Silence; and at the Court of Night
'Twas time to hang out every Light:
Now wearied Limbs took their repose,
When troubled Minds began to dose;
When twinkling Stars could hardly keep
Themselves from dropping fast asleep;
Some dimm'd and shot, but others fell:
Close was the silence, deep as Hell.
Half the Creation joyntly slept,
Clouds Sympathetick Showers wept.
The Moon, like all the rest, was gone
To Bed to her Endymion.
Cupid knock'd at Anacreon's Gate;
What business have you here so late,
Said I? and ask'd the stranger's name,
His Message, and from whence he came
Poor little Beggar-boy, said he,
That is benighted; pity me:
For Heaven's sake, Sir, let me in,
For I am almost wet to th' skin:
I've been a shooting all this day;
'Tis dark, and I have lost my way:
The Stars themselves, the very Moon,
Share my Misfortune; I'm undone!
Let me but in a Stable lie,
'Twill be a deed of Charity.
I heard the flattering Rascal speak,
And could not but for pity's sake,
In such a case, open the Gate,
Which straight my Youngster enter'd at,
With Bag and Quiver at his back:
And having drunk a Glass of Sack
To warm within, my little Squire,
I ask'd him to come near the Fire;
And brought him out a sumptuous hoard
Of Victuals on a plenteous Board,
The best my House could then afford;
And play'd the Courtier, to excuse
The barren deserts of my Muse
So poor a Meal as he must make,
And wish'd it better for his sake.
I rub'd his little hands in mine,
And wrung his hair so soft, so fine,
Like his own Mother's Locks. And now
He look'd so charmingly, I vow
I scarcely could forbear to hug
The little fiery wanton Pug.
And thus no little time was spent
In Ceremony and Complement.
Now when he found himself grow warm,
Has the Rain done my Bow no harm,
(Said he)? and made no more to do,
But took his pretty little Bow,
And strung it up, and pierc'd my heart:
So does the Gad-bee's tickling smart
Fret and delight th' infected part.
Up and away then, Whip and Spur,
Crying, God b'ye, your Servant, Sir;
I wish you well, my Host, adieu;
I'm very much oblig'd to you:
I see my Bow is well enough;
But Friend, your Heart's not Arrow-proof.