Cupid Turned Plowman

HIS lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders ty'd :
Sly Cupid always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field, and furrow'd tillage went.
Like any Plowman toil'd the little God,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd ;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove.
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain.
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain.
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plow.
What once Europa was Nannette is now.