With skill he chose his sharpest dart:
With all his might his bow he drew:
Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart
The too-well-guided arrow flew.
“I faint! I die!” the goddess cried:
“O cruel, could’st thou find none other
To wreak thy spleen on: Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.”
Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak;
“Indeed, mama, I did not know ye: