I'll Burn your bow, bold lad; by Love I swear,
Your quiver, too, with all its Scythian gear.
I will indeed, though now you sneer and cry;
That empty laugh shall soon be turned awry.
I'll break your pinions winged with passion fleet
And fasten brazen fetters on your feet.
And yet methinks a doubtful prize I win
To let a wolf my fenced heart steal within.
Nay, you are victor. Quick your sandals take
And fly away some other heart to break.

To Market with him, though he sleep
Upon his mother's breast.
To market with him: I'll not keep
So insolent a pest.

Glib, unabashed, swift glancing, wild,
A monster void of shame;
His mother even fears her child
As one she cannot tame.

Sly-faced is he, with wings close pressed
And nails that scratch and smart;
While tears fall from his eyes distressed
A smile his lips will part.

So quick to market send him down
To see if one will buy.
Is any merchant leaving town?
Let him come here and try.

My Love has gone astray,
This very morn he left me.
The wild lad flew away,
Of sleep bereft me.

His back two wings uprears,
His hand a quiver peerless,
Sly smiles he sends, soft tears;
Glib, swift, and fearless.

You ask whose son is he?
I cannot guess it even.
None owns him, neither sea
Nor earth nor heaven.

All hate him: even now
Beware the way he's going.
He's snaring hearts, I trow,
For men's undoing.

Hist! there in archer's guise
I see him taking cover.
He hides in Zeno's eyes:

— O Cruel, cruel Love! — Yet why
Should hapless lovers sob and sigh?
The lad grows strong as you revile
And greets each menace with a smile.
Our Lady rose once from the gray-green main,
Her child, oh wonder, burns in every vein.

" Oh, well I love the red red gold,
So sang the maiden fair:
" I love to twine in fold on fold
My bright soft golden hair
In spring the golden daffodils
Shine out in field and lane,
And when red gold the coffer fills
Why should a girl complain —
And when red gold the coffer fills
Why should a girl complain, complain,
Why should a girl complain? "

There came a lover bold and strong
To worship and to dare;
His voice of gold sang passion's song,
He stroked the golden hair.

My Tankard has a fragrance sweet
And smiles as though in glee,
Boasting that it has touched the lips
Of dear Zenophili.

Ah happy cup! that to my mouth
Her lips would press to-day,
In one long breath allay love's thirst
And drink my soul away.

Sweet after storm to sailors' eyes
Are zephyrs in the vernal skies,
To thirsty lips a cup is sweet
Fresh cooled with snow in summer's heat;

But sweeter still when man and maid
Lie hidden close beneath one plaid
And in its warmth together pressed
Find all the might of love confessed.

Ah me! what envious magic thins my fold?
What mutter'd spell retards their late increase?
Such less'ning fleeces must the swain behold,
That e'er with Doric pipe essays to please.

I saw my friends in evening circles meet;
I took my vocal reed, and tuned my lay;
I heard them say my vocal reed was sweet:
Ah, fool! to credit what I heard them say.

Ill-fated Bard! that seeks his skill to show,
Then courts the judgment of a friendly ear;
Not the poor vet'ran, that permits his foe
To guide his doubtful step, has more to fear.

If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbrous frame,
Funereal pomp the scanty tear supplies;
Whilst heralds loud, with venal voice, proclaim,
Lo! here the brave and the puissant lies.

When humbler Alcon leaves his drooping friends,
Pageant nor plume distinguish Alcon's bier;
The faithful Muse with votive song attends,
And blots the mournful numbers with a tear.

He little knew the sly penurious art;
That odious art which Fortune's favourites know;
Form'd to bestow, he felt the warmest heart,
But envious Fate forbade him to bestow.

Your eyes, Asclepias, have the pride
Of waves in summer weather,
Alluring all men to your side
To sail Love's sea together.