no man telle whens they did come. And the lyttel chylde had hys duellynge there, lyke unto an byrdis neste, and dyde synge rychte swetely, so that manie cam from afar to see the wonder. So dyd he manie yeris. At the last, deceisit the master of the house, and he that cam after hym loued nat musike, but was given up to thochtes of merchaunsedyse, and was of an ille fauour, regardynge nocht but his own gettynges. Soe one daye, heryng the chylde synge euer, he wox angery, and did command hym to holde his pees. Howe be it the chylde wolde nat. Than thys man, being wrothe, caused to bringe leveris, and to brak open the Cabynett, and take forth the chylde, and to put hym to the wyndowe. But the chylde sayd, 'Ye will curse the tyme ye put me forth;' and with those wordes vanyshed the chylde away, and was neuer sene a geyne. From that tyme the Cabynett was rent, and fall asonder in peces, Dyuers were angery with the man for his myssedede, but he sayd, 'The deuyll satysfye you, for I dyd it for the beste; but I shall neuer more medyll.' And he dyd nat, but sone after departed that cytie. And Plotinus sayth that thys chylde was estemit to be Cupido, and so was called in hys daies."] --LYDGATE'S _Boke of Tradycion_. Pray you, gentle ladies, hearken To a tale of ancient time: Let no doubt your bosoms darken, Love is always in his prime. Young, and fair, and gladly singing As he did in days of yore, O'er the bright blue ocean winging To the sweet Idalian shore. Cupid is not dead, dear ladies! You may hear him even now At the early dawn of May-days, Singing underneath the bough. But beware, for he deceiveth; Tempt him not within the door, For the house that Cupid leaveth Shall not prosper evermore. Old Plotinus, now in glory, Hath bequeathed to us a story, Which perhaps may sound as new-- And 'tis neither long nor stupid-- Of a man who captured Cupid; If you please, I'll tell it you. Wandering through the forests wide, Rising from Cephisus' side, Went a stout Athenian Archon, With a vacant listless eye, Till he heard a little cry, That made him stop and hearken. From a ruined temple near, Came a voice both soft and clear, Singing in some foreign tongue Sweeter strains than e'er were sung, Till the birds forbore their call, Wondering who the wight might be That in forest minstrelsy Overcame them, one and all. Slowly went the Archon on-- Peered above the broken stone-- There, within the waste enclosure, On a bed of myrtle wild, Lay a little yearling child, Who smiled and sung, and sung and smiled, In innocent composure. From his chubby shoulders, wings Sprouted outwards; tender things, Hardly fledged, as are the callow Nestlings of the household swallow. And the Archon, gazing there, Thought that never child so fair Had he looked on, anywhere.