Love is lost, nor can his mother 1 Her little fugitive discover: She seekes, she sighes, but no where spyes him; Love is lost: and thus shee cryes him. O yes! if any happy eye, 5 This roaving wanton shall descry; Let the finder surely know Mine is the wagge; 'tis I that owe The wingèd wand'rer; and that none May thinke his labour vainely gone, 10 The glad descryer shall not misse, To tast the nectar of a kisse From Venus lipps. But as for him That brings him to me, he shall swim In riper joyes: more shall be his 15 (Venus assures him) than a kisse. But lest your eye discerning slide, These markes may be your judgement's guide; His skin as with a fiery blushing High-colour'd is; his eyes still flushing 20 With nimble flames; and though his mind Be ne're so curst, his tongue is kind: For never were his words in ought Found the pure issue of his thought. The working bees' soft melting gold, 25 That which their waxen mines enfold, Flow not so sweet as doe the tones Of his tun'd accents; but if once His anger kindle, presently It boyles out into cruelty, 30 And fraud: he makes poor mortalls' hurts The objects of his cruell sports. With dainty curles his froward face Is crown'd about: But O what place, What farthest nooke of lowest Hell 35 Feeles not the strength, the reaching spell Of his small hand? Yet not so small As 'tis powerfull therewithall. Though bare his skin, his mind he covers, And like a saucy bird he hovers 40 With wanton wing, now here, now there, 'Bout men and women, nor will spare Till at length he perching rest, In the closet of their brest. His weapon is a little bow, 45 Yet such a one as--Jove knows how-- Ne're suffred, yet his little arrow, Of Heaven's high'st arches to fall narrow. The gold that on his quiver smiles, Deceives men's feares with flattering wiles. 50 But O­--too well my wounds can tell-- With bitter shafts 'tis sauc't too well. He is all cruell, cruell all, His torch imperious though but small Makes the sunne--of flames the sire-- 55 Worse than sun-burnt in his fire. Wheresoe're you chance to find him Ceaze him, bring him--but first bind him-- Pitty not him, but feare thy selfe Though thou see the crafty elfe, 60 Tell down his silver-drops unto thee: They'r counterfeit, and will undoe thee. With baited smiles if he display His fawning cheeks, looke not that way. If he offer sugred kisses, 65