1.
Cupid is Venus’ only joy,
But he is a wanton boy,
A very, very wanton boy;
He shoots at ladies’ naked breasts,
He is the cause of most men’s crests, –
I mean upon the forehead,
Invisible but horrid;
’Twas he first thought upon the way
To keep a lady’s lips in play.
2.
Why should not Venus chide her son
For the pranks that he hath done,
The wanton pranks that he hath done?
He shoots his fiery darts so thick,
They hurt poor ladies to the quick,
Ay me, with cruel wounding!
His darts are so confounding,
That life and sense would soon decay
But that he keeps their lips in play.
3.
Can there be any part of bliss,
In a quickly fleeting kiss,
A quickly, quickly fleeting kiss?
To one’s pleasure leisures are but waste,
The slowest kiss makes too much haste,
. . . . . . . .
And lose it ere we find it.
The pleasing sport they only know
That close above and close below.