Cupid, finding Europe bare of breasts
Open to his arrows, none of mind
Poetical enough for him, now tests
The other pondside, where he hopes to find
Someone of heart sufficiently aligned
With his, to make his duty soft and light.
Ay me! And I am caught beside his blind,
Allowing him to draw and shoot aright
Despite his often-argued lack of sight
And pierce my heartstrings with a single shot.
Yes, there it is, lodged in me firm and tight,
Before his bowstring could relax from taut.
But I, poor fool, consider this no woe,
But rather joy that he has struck me so.
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