8 
But her mandate was come, and alas ! he must go, 
So sighing, he snatch’d up his little bright bow ; 
With this weapon, said he, I am Cc Cupid all arm’d,” 
And why should a hero like me be alarm’d ? 
I broke the strong thunder-bolts forged for old Jove, 
They yielded like twigs to the arm of young Love ; 
So pluming his pinions, he stretch’d them and smil’d 
As they bore off to Flora, the beautiful child ! 
The wrath of the goddess had vanish’d away 
Like a cloud passing swift o’er the sunshine of May, 
And calm and serenely her countenance shone, 
For the storm had subsided, the tempest was gone. 
Boy of Beauty, she said, in the accents of love, 
Were thine arrows e’er pointed at Venus’s Dove ? 
Oh no! he replied, ’tis an innocent thing, 
Yet I once pluck’d a feather or two from its wing; 
And Venus, my mother, was greatly enrag’d, 
And kept me awhile, as a captive encag’d: 
The Graces then call’d me a mischievous child 
And whimpled, and whining, and wayward, and wild! 
