And, vowes to shoot at all he meets to day.
Pray be not carelesse; for, the Boy is blinde,
And, sometimes strikes, where most he seemeth kinde.
This rambling Archer spares nor one, nor other:
Yea, otherwhile, the Monkey shoots his Mother.
Though you be little Children, come not neere;
For, I remember (though't be many a yeare
Now gone and past,) that, when I was a Lad,
My Heart, a pricke, by this young Wanton had,
That, pain'd me seven yeares after: nor had I