SOME, Cupid kills with arrows, Some, with traps; But this spring the little rascal Found, perhaps, That he needed both to slay me; So he laid a cunning snare On the hillside, and he hid it In a lot of maidenhair; And I doubt not he is laughing At the joke, For he made his arrows out of Poison-oak. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE SOUR READER by ROBERT HERRICK UPON HIS LEAVING HIS MISTRESS by JOHN WILMOT EPISTLES ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF WOMEN: 3 by LUCY AIKEN A BALLADE OF COLLEGE GIRLS by F. R. BATCHELDER CLARE'S GHOST by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THREE PICTURES by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |