Cupid's Cryer: Out of the Greeke

Love is lost, nor can his motherHer little fugitive discover:She seekes, she sighes, but no where spyes him;Love is lost: and thus shee cryes him.O yes! if any happy eye,This roaving wanton shall descry;Let the finder surely knowMine is the wagge; 'tis I that oweThe winged wand'rer; and that noneMay thinke his labour vainely gone,The glad descryer shall not misse,To tast the nectar of a kisseFrom Venus lipps. But as for himThat brings him to me, he shall swimIn riper joyes: more shall be his(Venus assures him) than a kisse.But lest your eye discerning slide,These markes may be your judgement's guide;His skin as with a fiery blushingHigh-colour'd is; his eyes still flushingWith nimble flames; and though his mindBe ne're so curst, his tongue is kind:For never were his words in oughtFound the pure issue of his thought.The working bees' soft melting gold,That which their waxen mines enfold,Flow not so sweet as doe the tonesOf his tun'd accents; but if onceHis anger kindle, presentlyIt boyles out into cruelty,And fraud: he makes poor mortalls' hurtsThe objects of his cruell sports.With dainty curles his froward faceIs crown'd about: But O what place,What farthest nooke of lowest HellFeeles not the strength, the reaching spellOf his small hand? Yet not so smallAs 'tis powerfull therewithall.Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,And like a saucy bird he hoversWith wanton wing, now here, now there,'Bout men and women, nor will spareTill at length he perching rest,In the closet of their brest.His weapon is a little bow,Yet such a one as--Jove knows how--Ne're suffred, yet his little arrow,Of Heaven's high'st arches to fall narrow.The gold that on his quiver smiles,Deceives men's feares with flattering wiles.But O---too well my wounds can tell--With bitter shafts 'tis sauc't too well.He is all cruell, cruell all,His torch imperious though but smallMakes the sunne--of flames the sire--Worse than sun-burnt in his fire.Wheresoe're you chance to find himCeaze him, bring him--but first bind him--Pitty not him, but feare thy selfeThough thou see the crafty elfe,Tell down his silver-drops unto thee:They'r counterfeit, and will undoe thee.With baited smiles if he displayHis fawning cheeks, looke not that way.If he offer sugred kisses,Start, and say, the serpent hisses.Draw him, drag him, though he prayWooe, intreat, and crying sayPrethee, sweet, now let me go,Here's my quiver, shafts and bow,I'le give thee all, take all; take heedLest his kindnesse make thee bleed.What e're it be Loue offers, still presumeThat though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume.