Classic and Contemporary Poetry
OUT OF THE GREEKE CUPID'S CRYER, by MOSCHUS Poet's Biography First Line: Love is lost, nor can his mother Last Line: That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume. Subject(s): Cupid; Eros | ||||||||
Love is lost, nor can his Mother Her little fugitive discover: Shee seekes, shee sighs, 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 know Mine is the wagge; Tis I that owe The winged wand'rer, and that none May thinke his labour vainely gone, The glad descryer shall not misse, To tast the Nectar of a kisse From Venus lipps. But as for him That brings him to mee, hee shall swim In riper joyes: more shall bee his (Venus assures him) than a kisse; But least your eye discerning slide These markes may bee your judgements guide; His skin as with a fiery blushing High-colour'd is; His eyes still flushing With nimble flames, and though his mind Be ne're so curst, his Tongue is kind: For never were his words in ought Found 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 Tones Of his tun'd accents; but if once His anger kindle, presently It boyles out into cruelty, And fraud: Hee makes poore mortalls hurts, The objects of his cruell sports. With dainty curles his froward face Is crown'd about; But o what place, What farthest nooke of lowest Hell Feeles not the strength, the reaching spell Of his small hand? Yet not so small As 'tis powerfull therewithall. Though bare his skin, his mind hee covers, And like a saucy Bird he hovers With wanton wing, now here, now there, 'Bout men and women, nor will spare Till at length he perching rest, In the closet of their brest. His weapon is a little Bow, Yet such a one as (Jove knowes how) Ne're suffred yet his little Arrow Of Heavens high'st Arches to fall narrow. The Gold that on his Quiver smiles, Deceives mens feares with flattering wiles. But o (too well my wounds can tell) With bitter shafts 'tis sauc't too well. Hee is all cruell, cruell all; His Torch Imperious though but small Makes the Sunne (of flames the sire) Worse then Sun-burnt in his fire. Wheresoe're you chance to find him Cease him, bring him, (but first bind him) Pitty not him, but feare thy selfe Though thou see the crafty Elfe, Tell down his Silver-drops unto thee, They'r counterfeit, and will undoe thee. With baited smiles if he display His fawning cheeks, looke not that way; If hee offer sugred kisses, Start, and say, The Serpent hisses. Draw him, drag him, though hee pray Wooe, intreat, and crying say Prethee, sweet now let me goe, Here's my Quiver Shafts and Bow, I'le give thee all, take all; take heed Lest his kindnesse make thee bleed. What e're it be Love offers, still presume That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MESSAGE FROM THE SLEEPER AT HELL'S MOUTH: 6. ONESELF AT HELL'S MOUTH by ALICIA SUSKIN OSTRIKER SONNET: O HUSBAND! by ANNE WALDMAN EROS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES CLEOMENS, OR THE SPARTAN HERO: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 5. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID by BEN JONSON CUPID MISTAKEN by MATTHEW PRIOR DEATH AND CUPID; AN ALLEGORY by JOHN GODFREY SAXE ALL THINGS SHOULD CONTRIBUTE TO LOVE'S ASSISTANCE; AN IDYLLIUM by MOSCHUS |
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