In Cupid's court — A Closer Reading

“You silly boy,” Dame Venus said, “Why did you waste your art? Go clip your curls and hide your head,— Belinda _has_ no heart!”

Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry.

Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman’s plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man:

And then he’s so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

A Lottery, a Lottery, In Cupid’s Court there used to be; Two roguish eyes The highest prize In Cupid’s scheming Lottery; And kisses, too, As good as new, Which weren’t very hard to win, For he who won The eyes of fun Was sure to have the kisses in. A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery In Cupid’s court went merrily, And Cupid played A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; For hearts, we’re told, In _shares_ he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts So well, each thought the whole his own, A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

My love is fair, my love is gay, As fresh as are the flowers in May; And of my love the roundelay, My merry, merry roundelay, Concludes with Cupid’s curse: They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse!

My love can pipe, my love can sing, My love can many a pretty thing, And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry roundelays. Amen to Cupid’s curse! They that do change old love for new, Pray gods they change for worse!

When Love is coming, coming, Meet him with songs and joy, Bid him alight and enter, Flatter and feast the boy; Crown him with gems and roses, Charm him with winning wiles, Bind him with lovely garlands, And kisses, and smiles.

When Love is going, going, Leaving you all alone, Craving, the fickle tyrant, Some newer slave and throne, Hinder him not, but quickly, Even though your heart may bleed, Saddle a horse for his journey, And bid him God-speed!

Love’s tyranny now wherefore should I praise, Not being enamoured of my altered plight!

I often sigh who once sang roundelays; I know the sleepless gnomes that haunt the night.

I turn with feverish jealousy to hear Words that were spoken when I was not near.

I shroud my eyes from sights I dare not see, Yet who so spies must tell his tale to me.

Madman am I, who give my vote for death, Yet heed not the grim hand that beckoneth.

Love I entreat to go, and while I pray Grasp him with nervous fingers, lest he stray.

Ah! than love’s blessing is no deadlier curse, And yet—and yet—to live undamned were worse.

He came in busy hours— My holidays are few— He brought the scent of flowers, And whispered, dear, of you.

I vowed that I would flay him, And scourge him out of sight; Nay more, I vowed to slay him, The mischief-making sprite.

I gave him caustic chiding, Let fly a poisoned dart. Presto! the lad was hiding Safely within my heart!

There all day long he chatters Of some one’s charm and grace; Till nothing really matters Except to see your face.

I would I had not chidden, Nor tried the sprite to kill; For in my heart safe hidden, He works his wayward will.

O wary elf Cupid, O dimpled, coy Cupid, Are you lost in the moonbeams, or hid in a rose? Who saw you, so nimble, slip out of a thimble, And hang from the loops of a lily-maid’s bows?

Wee, spry little midget, the world’s in a fidget To snare and then coddle you, mischievous sprite; Your pranks and mad gambols and primrose-path rambles ’Mid briers and brambles are all my delight.

In ivy-clad bowers you nestle for hours, And lurk in the flowers that swing in the breeze; There counting the kisses, the sweet stolen blisses, Of Strephon and Phyllis in languorous ease.

We trifle and putter, our hearts in a flutter, In a tangled skein spun by the toiletted fair, The weary hours whiling, and dull care beguiling— Lo! dimpled and smiling, you’re loitering there!

O wary elf Cupid, O cunning, coy Cupid, Are lovers all stupid, dear, rollicking boy? While maidens are sighing and love-knots are tying, The snap of your bow-string bodes sorrow and joy!

HAROLD VAN SANTVOORD.

O shepherds! have ye wandering seen A wingèd boy with blinded eyes? I drove him from me yester e’en, Despite his tears and pleading sighs.

He bears a pretty bow, and keen Tipped arrows in his quiver lie. O shepherds, tell me, have you seen This banished Love come wandering by?

Why shines the sun, regret to mock, Why flaunt the flowers in hues so gay, Why skip with joy the snowy flock, When poor lost Love is far away?

Unfeeling shepherds, wherefore smile And point toward my breaking heart? What! close behind me all this while? O sweet! we two no more shall part.

VIRGINIA B. HARRISON.

Cupid, pardon what is past, And forgive our sins at last! Then we will be coy no more, But thy deity adore; Troths at fifteen we will plight, And will tread a dance each night, In the fields, or by the fire, With the youths that have desire. Given ear-rings we will wear, Bracelets of our lovers’ hair, Which they on our arms shall twist, With their names carved, on our wrist: All the money that we owe We in tokens will bestow; And learn to write that, when ’tis sent, Only our loves know what is meant. Oh, then pardon what is past, And forgive our sins at last.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Hast thou seen a boy so clever, Bow in hand, and from his shoulders Three tipped arrows in a quiver, With which, piercing all beholders, He goes up and down forever?

One dart, in the deep eye clinging, Blinds us ever to his aiming; One straight at the white throat flinging, He denies his wrong’s complaining; One he leaves in the heart stinging.

And the last dart, tipt with scorning, Quickly kindles a hot passion Which consumes us with its burning: Eyeless, tongueless, in such fashion, Blind and mute, we wander yearning.

A ho! A ho! Love’s horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. His shafts are light as beauty’s sighs, And bright as midnight’s brightest eyes, And round his starry way The swan-wing’d horses of the skies, With summer’s music in their manes, Curve their fair necks to zephyr’s reins, And urge their graceful play.

A ho! A ho! Love’s horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. The sparrows flutter round his wrist, The feathery thieves that Venus kist And taught their morning song, The linnets seek the airy list, And swallows too, small pets of Spring, Bear back the gale with swifter wing, And dart and wheel along.

A ho! A ho! Love’s horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. Now woe to every gnat that skips To filch the fruit of ladies’ lips, His felon blood is shed; And woe to flies, whose airy ships On beauty cast their anchoring bite, And bandit wasp, that naughty wight, Whose sting is slaughter-red.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

I have heard of reasons manifold Why Love must needs be blind, But this the best of all I hold— His eyes are in his mind.

What outward form and feature are He guesseth but in part; But that within is good and fair He seeth with the heart.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

I found Love sleeping in a place of shade, And as in some sweet dream the sweet lips smiled; Yea, seemed he as a lovely, sleeping child. Soft kisses on his full, red lips I laid, And with red roses did his tresses braid; Then pure, white lilies on his breast I piled, And fettered him with woodbine sweet and wild, And fragrant armlets for his arms I made.

But while I, leaning, yearned across his breast, Upright he sprang, and from swift hand, alert, Sent forth a shaft that lodged within my heart. Ah, had I never played with Love at rest, He had not wakened, had not cast his dart, And I had lived who die now of this hurt.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

The little boy called Love lay dead, And on his tiny tomb Some carven letters sweetly said That for a day his heart had bled, And named the maid for whom.

This maid, on coming to the mound, Felt a remorseful pain, And kissed his image, clasped it round, Grew pale, and sank upon the ground, And shed an April rain.

Then, like a prison-bursting thief, Outleapt the bounding boy, Whose stay in Hadés had been brief— For hardly had he died of grief Than he arose for joy.

“What means this caper?” cried the maid As in his arms she sank, And half delighted, half afraid, Began most sweetly to upbraid This most audacious prank.

“Fair maid, your scorn of me,” he said, “Was all a make-believe, And put the thought into my head To play the trick of being dead, To see how you would grieve.”

She dashed with anger from her eyes Her all-too-tender tears,— And greatly to the lad’s surprise, And heedless of his woeful cries, She boxed his little ears.

“Back to your tomb and there abide! And quit it not!” quoth she (And added, locking him inside), “I never loved you till you _died_ For just your love of _me_.”

I saw young Love make trial of his bow, In May’s green garden where he shot his dart, Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art, But other eyes did mark him as I know; For my sweet lady sate anear his throw, And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart, So that we might not feel the bitter smart Love leaveth there when time doth force to go.

We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass, Or watched them quiver in the targe below; Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came, Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim, That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

I did not dream that Love would stay, I deemed him but a passing guest, Yet here he lingers many a day.

I said, “Young Love will flee with May, And leave forlorn the hearth he blest”; I did not dream that Love would stay.

My envious neighbor mocks me “Nay, Love lies not long in any nest”; Yet here he lingers many a day.

And though I did his will alway, And gave him even of my best; I did not dream that Love would stay.

I have no skill to bid him stay, Of tripping tongue or cunning jest, Yet here he lingers many a day.

Beneath his ivory feet I lay Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast; I did not dream that Love would stay.

Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say, Home turning for the noonday rest; Yet here he lingers many a day.

His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay, His eyes through tears smile loveliest; I did not dream that love would stay.

He sometimes sighs when far away The low red sun makes fair the west, Yet here he lingers many a day.

Thrice blest of all men am I! yea, Although of all unworthiest; I did not dream that Love would stay, Yet here he lingers many a day.

Selfish rogue, did Psyche dream, When her lamp she held above him, How the oil would downward stream, Wake the rogue and make her love him?

When Love is dead, what more but funeral rites— To lay his sweet corse lovingly to rest, To cover him with rose and eglantine, And all fair posies that he loved the best?

What more, but kisses for his close-shut eyes— His cold, still lips that never more will speak— His hair, too bright for dust of death to dim— The flush scarce faded from his frozen cheek?

What more but tears that will not warm his brow, Although they burn the eyes from which they start?— No bitter weeping or more bitter words Can rouse to one more throb that pulseless heart.

So dead he is, who once was so alive! In summer, when the ardent days were long, He was as warm as June, as gay and glad As any bird that swelled its throat with song.

So dead!—yet all things were his ministers— All birds and blossoms, and the joyous June! Would they had died, and kept sweet Love alive; Since he is gone the world is out of tune.

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

When blushing cheeks and downcast eyes Set all the heart aflame, When love within a dimple lies And constancy’s a name, Since every lass is passing fair, Cupid must fly and see; And, lightly flitting here and there, A wingèd boy is he.

When creeping years steal on apace And youth and vigor go, When time with wrinkles marks the face And strews the hair with snow, Ah, then no wingèd boy is he; But strong-limbed and complete, With blinded eyes that need not see, Since memory guides his feet.

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow. “’Tis useless!” he cried, “you must mend it, I say, ’Tisn’t fit to let fly at a sparrow. There’s something that’s wrong in the shaft, or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim, ’Tis an age since it fairly went home to a heart, And the world really jests at my name.

“I have straightened, I’ve bent, I’ve tried all, I declare, I’ve perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; ’Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; But it falls without touching—I’ll break it, I vow, For there’s Hymen beginning to pout, He’s complaining his torch beam’s so dull and so low, That Zephyr might puff it right out.”

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored. “There, take it, young sir, try it now. If it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward!” The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made, The wounded and dead were untold, But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with gold.

CUPID PLAGUE THEE FOR THY TREASON

Now I see thy looks were feigned, Quickly lost, and quickly gained; Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, Heart inconstant, light as feathers, Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted, Wanton will with change delighted. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Of thine eye I made my mirror, From thy beauty came my error, All thy words I counted witty, All thy sighs I deemed pity, Thy false tears that me aggrieved, First of all my trust deceived. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Feigned acceptance when I asked, Lovely words with cunning masked, Holy vows, but heart unholy; Wretched man, my trust was folly; Lily white, and pretty winking, Solemn vows but sorry thinking. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Now I see, O seemly cruel, Others warm them at my fuel, Wit shall guide me in this durance Since in love is no assurance: Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, Beauty is a fading treasure. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

Prime youth lasts not, age will follow And make white those tresses yellow, Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint the dame despiteful. And when time shall date thy glory, Then too late thou wilt be sorry. Siren, pleasant foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

YOUNG LOVE’S A GALLANT BOY

When Love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him, And back he vowed his flight he’d wing To Heaven, if she should leave him.

But Spring departing, saw his faith Pledged to the next new-comer— He revelled in the warmer breath And richer bowers of Summer.

Then sportive Autumn claimed by rights An Archer for her lover, And even in Winter’s dark cold nights A charm he could discover.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, For this time were his reasons— In short, Young Love’s a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons.

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 marks about him plenty: You 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.

At his sight the sun hath turned, Neptune in the waters burned; Hell hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook his seat. From the center to the sky Are his trophies rearèd high.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. All his practice is deceit; Every gift it is a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears; And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign; Then the straggler makes his gain By presenting maids with toys, And would have ye think them joys; ’Tis the ambition of the elf To have all childish as himself.

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 you hear his falser play, And that he’s Venus’ runaway.

Deep in the shadow of her hazel eyes, Waiting to capture men, Love lurking lies. Her glances are the arrows of his bow, Wherewith he lays unwary victims low; And she, unused to Cupid’s artful wiles, Unconscious aids his purpose by her smiles, And knows not, as her smiles and glances dart, What anguish these may bring to many a heart.

Ah! hapless maiden, innocently gay, No presage of the future breeds dismay; She does not know how soon the treacherous guest Will make her heart the haven of unrest. Ungrateful Cupid! Soon from her he’ll fly, And seek a refuge in some lover’s eye, Then from that point of vantage aim a dart To pierce and agonize her maiden heart.

Before the urchin well could go She stole the whiteness of the snow, And more that whiteness to adorn She stole the blushes of the morn; Stole all the sweets that either sheds On primrose buds or violet beds.

Still, to reveal her artful wiles, She stole the Graces’ silken smiles: She stole Aurora’s balmy breath, And pilfered orient pearl for teeth: The cherry, dipt in morning dew, Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store To which in time she added more: At twelve she stole from Cyprus’ queen Her air and love-commanding mien; Stole Juno’s dignity, and stole From Pallas sense to charm the soul.

Apollo’s wit was next her prey; Her next, the beam that lights the day. She sung: amazed the Sirens heard, And to assert their voice appeared: She played: the Muses from the hill Wondered who thus had stol’n their skill.

Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And t’other day she stole my heart! If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this Fair; To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms.

It was a little, fearful maid, Whose mother left her all alone; Her door with iron bolt she stayed, And ’gainst it rolled a lucky stone— For many a night she’d waked with fright when witches by the house had flown.

To piping lute in still midnight, Who comes a-singing at the door,— That showeth seams of golden light,— “Ah, open, darling, I implore”? She could not help knowing ’twas Love, although they’d never met before.