1.
Beauties, have ye seen this toy
Callèd Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind,
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus’ runaway.
2.
She that will but now discover
Where the wingèd wag doth hover,
Shall tonight receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish;
But, who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss and another.
3.
He hath of marks about him plenty;
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire,
That being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
4.
At his sight the sun hath turned;
Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat.
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies rearèd high.
5.
Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
And, if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.
6.
He doth bear a golden bow
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows that out-brave
Dian’s shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.
7.
Still the fairest are his fuel.
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers’ hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood.
Naught but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to reason.
8.
Trust him not. His words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;
Not a kiss but poison bears,
And most treason in his tears.
9.
Idle minutes are his reign;
Then the straggler makes his gain
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think ’em joys.
’Tis the ambition of the elf
T’have all childish, as himself.