Classic Poem

Had he not hands of rare device, whoe'er
First painted Love in figure of a boy?
He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were,
Who blessings lose whilst lightest cares employ.

Nor added he those airy wings in vain,
And bade through human hearts the godhead fly;
For we are tost upon a wavering main;
Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky.

Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts,
The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast;
Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts;
And those inflicted wounds for ever last.

In me are fixt those arrows — in my breast;
But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains;
For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest;
Still, still I feel him warring through my veins.

In these scorcht vitals dost thou joy to dwell?
Oh shame! to others let thy arrows flee;
Let veins untoucht with all thy venom swell;
Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me.

Destroy me — who shall then describe the fair?
This my light Muse to thee high glory brings:
When the nymphs' tapering fingers, flowing hair,
And eyes of jet, and gliding feet, she sings.