To Cupid

If Love his arrows shoot so fast,
Soon his feathered stock will waste:
But I mistake in thinking so,
Love's arrows in his quiver grow;
How can he want artillery?
That appears too true in me:
Two shafts feed upon my breast,
Oh make it quiver for the rest!
Kill me with love, thou angry son
Of Cytherea, or let one,
One sharp golden arrow fly
To wound her heart for whom I die.
Cupid, if thou beest a child,
Be no god, or be more mild.