To Cvpid

Maydens, why spare ye?     Or whether not dare ye         Correct the blind Shooter?     Because wanton VENVS,     So oft that doth paine vs,         Is her Sonnes Tutor.     Now in the Spring,     He proueth his Wing,         The Field is his Bower,     And as the small Bee,     About flyeth hee,         From Flower to Flower.     And wantonly roues,     Abroad in the Groues,         And in the Ayre houers,     Which when it him deweth,     His Fethers he meweth,         In sighes of true Louers.     And since doom'd by Fate,     (That well knew his Hate)         That Hee should be blinde;     For very despite,     Our Eyes be his White,         So wayward his kinde.     If his Shafts loosing,     (Ill his Mark choosing)         Or his Bow broken;     The Moane VENVS maketh,     And care that she taketh,         Cannot be spoken.     To VULCAN commending     Her loue, and straight sending         Her Doues and her Sparrowes,     With Kisses vnto him,     And all but to woo him,         To make her Sonne Arrowes.     Telling what he hath done,     (Sayth she, Right mine owne Sonne)         In her Armes she him closes,     Sweetes on him fans,     Layd in Downe of her Swans,         His Sheets, Leaues of Roses.     And feeds him with Kisses;     Which oft when he misses,         He euer is froward:     The Mothers o'r-ioying,     Makes by much coying,         The Child so vntoward.     Yet in a fine Net,     That a Spider set,         The Maydens had caught him;     Had she not beene neere him,     And chanced to heare him,         More good they had taught him.