The wanton lad whose sport is others pain Did charge his bended bow with deadly dart, And drawing to the head with might and main, With fell intent he aim’d to hit my heart. But ever as he shot his arrows still In their mid course dropt down into the rill. Of wondrous virtues that in waters been Is needlesse to rehearse, all books do ring Of those strange rarities. But ne’re was seen Such virtue as resided in this spring. The novelty did make me much admire But stirr’d the hasty youth to ragefull ire. As heedlesse fowls that take their per’lous flight Over that bane of birds, _Averno lake_, Do drop down dead: so dead his shafts did light Amid this stream, which presently did slake Their fiery points, and all their feathers wet Which made the youngster Godling inly fret. Thus lustfull Love (this was that love I ween) Was wholly changed to consuming ire. And eath it was, sith they’re so near a kin They be both born of one rebellious sire. But he supprest his wrath and by and by For feathered darts, he winged words let flie: Vain man! said he, and would thou wer’st not vain That hid’st thy self in solitary shade And spil’st thy precious youth in sad disdain Hating this lifes delight! Hath god thee made Part of this world, and wilt not thou partake Of this worlds pleasure for its makers sake? Unthankfull wretch! Gods gifts thus to reject And maken nought of Natures goodly dower That milders still away through thy neglect And dying fades like unregarded flower. This life is good, what’s good thou must improve, The highest improvement of this life is love. Had I (but O that envious Destinie, Or Stygian vow, or thrice accursed charm Should in this place free passage thus denie Unto my shafts as messengers of harm! Had I but once transfixt thy froward breast, How would’st thou then----I staid not for the rest; But thus half angry to the boy replide: How would’st thou then my soul of sense bereave! I blinded, thee more blind should choose my guide! How would’st thou then my muddied mind deceive With fading shows, that in my errour vile, Base lust; I love should tearm, vice, virtue stile. How should my wicked rymes then idolize Thy wretched power, and with impious wit Impute thy base born passions to the skies And my souls sicknesse count an heavenly fit, My weaknesse strength, my wisdome to be caught My bane my blisse, mine ease to be o’rewraught. How often through my fondly feigning mind And frantick phansie, in my Mistris eye Should I a thousand fluttering Cupids find Bathing their busie wings? How oft espie Under the shadow of her eye-brows fair Ten thousand Graces sit all naked bare?