CUPID SWALLOWED
T’other day, as I was twining
Roses, for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor—Love himself!
By the wings I pinch’d him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him;
And what d’ye think I did?—I drank him!
Faith! I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.
Leigh Hunt.
