Poetry Archives

As after noon, one summer’s day,
  Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
  New strung his bow, new fill’d his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart:
  With all his might his bow he drew:
Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart
  The too well-guided arrow flew.

I faint! I die! the Goddess cry’d:
  O cruel, could’st thou find none other,
To wreck thy spleen on?  Parricide!
  Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;
  Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye:
Alas! how easy my mistake?
  I took you for your likeness, Chloe.