FOND, feigning poets make of love a god, And leave the laurel for the myrtle-boughs, When Cupid is a child not past the rod, And fair Diana Daphne most allows: I'll wear the bays, and call the wag a boy, And think of love but as a foolish toy. Some give him bow and quiver at his back, Some make him blind to aim without advice, When, naked wretch, such feather'd bolts he lack, And sight he hath, but cannot wrong the wise; For use but labour's weapon for defence, And Cupid, like a coward, flieth thence. He's god in court, but cottage calls him child, And Vesta's virgins with their holy fires Do cleanse the thoughts that fancy hath defil'd, And burn the palace of his fond desires; With chaste disdain they scorn the foolish god, And prove him but a boy not past the rod. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WRITTEN ON A WALL AT WOODSTOCK by ELIZABETH I EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: BOMBER IN LONDON by RUDYARD KIPLING IDYLLS OF THE KING: GUINEVERE by ALFRED TENNYSON PROVERBS 31:25-29. THE MOTHER OF THE HOUSE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE ARTEMIS ON LATMOS by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR THE CANTERBURY TALES: THE MAN OF LAW'S TALE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |