Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!
Here is a stately Lady in the case:
We mustn’t, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.
O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!
Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen’s quarters;
His torch bedimming, as thou runn’st away,
Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!
Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows pass
Thro’ hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;
Who mark’st with Milkmaids’ forms, the tell-tale grass,