HIS lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside, A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied; Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent, To the rich field and furrowed tillage went; Like any ploughman toiled the little god, His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sowed; Then sat and laughed, and to the skies above Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove: Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain, And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain, Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow, Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough; What once Europa was, Nannette is now. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |