One sunny day Love chose to stray Adown a rosy path forbidden, Where Mischief deep in ambush lay, And watched his snare ’neath flowers hidden: Love tumbling in, began to shout For Mischief’s aid, lest he should smother: “You little demon, let me out, Or I’ll report you to my mother.” Said Mischief, “I’ll not set you free Unless you share your power with me, And give of every heart you gain, One-half to joy and half to pain.” Love struggled, but in vain, alas! He was not born to prove a martyr, And, sad to tell! it came to pass He gave in to the little Tartar. Love flew to Venus in a pet, And cried, when he had told his story: “O, Queen of Beauty, never let That little imp wear half my glory.” The goddess with a look sedate, Replied, “I cannot alter fate, But you shall conquer still, my boy, I’ll make love’s pain more sweet than joy.” ZAVARR WILMSHURST. [Illustration: DAMON AND CUPID] The sun was now withdrawn, The shepherds home were sped; The moon wide o’er the lawn Her silver mantle spread; When Damon stayed behind, And sauntered in the grove: “Will ne’er a nymph be kind, And give me love for love? “O! those were golden hours, When Love, devoid of cares, In all Arcadia’s bowers Lodged nymphs and swains by pairs; But now from wood and plain Flies every sprightly lass; No joys for me remain, In shades, or on the grass.” The wingèd boy draws near, And thus the swain reproves: “While Beauty revelled here, My game lay in the groves; At court I never fail To scatter round my arrows: Men fall as thick as hail, And maidens love like sparrows. “Then, swain, if me you need, Straight lay your sheep-hook down; Throw by your oaten reed, And haste away to town. So well I’m known at court, None ask where Cupid dwells: But readily resort To Bellendens or Lepels.” JOHN GAY. CUPID AND CAMPASPE Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother’s doves and team of sparrows; Loses them, too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on ’s cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin— All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas, become of me! JOHN LYLY. LOVE FOR LOVE