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His might, and deprecate his power:

Those darts, whence all our joy and pain
Arise those darts-Come, seven's the main, 30
Cries Ganymede: the usual trick :

Seven, slur a six; eleven, a nick.

Ill news goes fast: 'twas quickly known,"
That simple Cupid was undone.
Swifter than lightning Venus flew :
Too late she found the thing too true.
Guess how the goddess greets her son:
Come hither, sirrah: no, begone;
And, hark ye, is it so indeed?
A comrade you for Ganymede?
An imp as wicked, for his age,
As any earthly lady's page;
A scandal and a scourge to Troy;
A prince's son! a black-guard boy;
A sharper, that with box and dice
Draws in young deities to vice.
All Heaven is by the ears together,
Since first that little rogue came hither:
Juno herself has had no peace:
And truly I've been favour'd less :
For Jove, as Fame reports (but Fame
Says things not fit for me to name),
Has acted ill for such a god,
And taken ways extremely odd.

And thou, unhappy child, she said
(Her anger by her grief allay'd),
Unhappy child, who thus has lost
All the estate we e'er could boast;
Whither, O whither wilt thou run,
Thy name despis'd, thy weakness known?

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Nor shall thy shrine on earth be crown'd;
Nor shall thy power in Heaven be own'd;
When thou, nor man, nor god canst wound.
Obedient Cupid kneeling cried,
Cease, dearest mother, cease to chide:
Gany's a cheat, and I'm a bubble:
Yet why this great excess of trouble?

The dice were false: the darts are gone:
Yet how are you or I undone?

The loss of these I can supply
With keener shafts from Cloe's eye:
Fear not we e'er can be disgrac'd,
While that bright magazine shall last:
Your crowded altars still shall smoke;
And man your friendly aid invoke:
Jove shall again revere your power,
And rise a swan, or fall a shower.

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CUPID MISTAKEN.

S after noon, one summer's day,

Venus stood bathing in a river, Cupid a-shooting went that way, New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart,
With all his might his bow he drew;
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well-guided arrow flew.

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I faint! I die! the goddess cried;

O cruel, couldst thou find none other, To wrack thy spleen on? Parricide!

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;
Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye:
Alas! how easy my mistake;

I took you for your likeness, Cloe.

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VENUS MISTAKEN.

HEN Cloe's picture was to Venus shown,
Surpris'd, the goddess took it for her

own.

And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?

When was I bathing thus, and naked seen?

Pleas'd Cupid.heard, and check'd his mother's pride: And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cried. 'Tis Cloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast: Friend Howard's genius fancied all the rest.

A SONG.

F wine and music have the power To ease the sickness of the soul; Let Phoebus every string explore; And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl. Let them their friendly aid employ, To make my Cloe's absence light; And seek for pleasure, to destroy The sorrows of this live-long night. But she to-morrow will return; Venus, be thou to-morrow great; Thy myrtles strow, thy odours burn; And meet thy fav'rite nymph in state. Kind goddess, to no other powers Let us to-morrow's blessings own: Thy darling loves shall guide the hours, And all the day be thine alone.

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THE DOVE.

Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ ?-VIRG.

N Virgil's sacred verse we find,

That passion can depress or raise
The heavenly, as the human mind:

Who dare deny what Virgil says?

But if they should; what our great master
Has thus laid down, my tale shall prove.
Fair Venus wept the sad disaster

Of having lost her favourite Dove.

In complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;
His grief reliev'd his mother's pain;
He vow'd he'd leave no stone unturn'd,

But she should have her Dove again.

Though none, said he, shall yet be nam'd,
I know the felon well enough:
But be she not, mamma, condemn'd
Without a fair and legal proof.

With that, his longest dart he took,
As constable would take his staff:
That gods desire like men to look,
Would make e'en Heraclitus laugh.

Love's subalterns, a duteous band,

Like watchmen round their chief appear:
Each had his lantern in his hand:
And Venus mask'd brought up the rear.

Accoutred thus, their eager step

To Cloe's lodging they directed: (At once I write, alas! and weep, That Cloe is of theft suspected.)

Late they set out, had far to go:

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St. Dunstan's, as they pass'd, struck one.

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Cloe, for reasons good, you know,

Lives at the sober end o' th' town.

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