Cupid

Beauties, have ye seen this toy,     Called love, a little boy     Almost naked, wanton, blind,     Cruel now, and then as kind?     If he be amongst ye, say!     He is Venus' runaway.     He hath of marks about him plenty;     Ye 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.     He doth bear a golden bow,     And a quiver, hanging low,     Full of arrows, that outbrave     Dian's shafts, where, if he have     Any head more sharp than other,     With that first he strikes his mother.     Trust him not: his words, though sweet,     Seldom with his heart do meet;     All his practice is deceit,     Every gift is but a bait;     Not a kiss but poison bears,     And most treason in his tears.     If by these ye please to know him,     Beauties, be not nice, but show him,     Though ye had a will to hide him.     Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him,     Since ye hear his falser play,     And that he's Venus' runaway.