Some creature there is who roams the world through
Working mischief to many and joy to a few,
But conquering all, whether hell or above
Be his home, I am not certain; his name though is love.
The young he most frequently marks as his game,
Strikes them straight through the heart with an unerring aim;
Though the middle age, too, if he gets in his way,
With his bow he will cover and bend to his sway.
And sometimes the rogue with an aim somewhat absurd,
Makes fools of old people. Indeed, I have heard