MOther, your love to me was shown Before that I could go alone; For with Nectar then you fed me, And in tender manner bred me: Till perceiving once that I Was able on my wings to fly; I did descend unto the Earth, With my bow to make some mirth. For all the World is my Park; Where, when I shoot, I hit the mark. Young Men and Maidens are my game; While I, the little Bowman am. Yet lest you may think my leisure I do only waste in pleasure; These Posies I have writ of late: Which to you I dedicate, That so the love may be exprest, Of your Son that loves you best.
Cupid's Posies.
I that Cupid callèd am, And shall never be a Man; But am still the blindèd Boy That breeds Lovers much annoy: Having gotten, on a day, From my Mother leave to play; And obtainèd use of sight, I in wantonness did write These same Posies which I send, And to Lovers do commend. Which if they be writ within The little circle of a Ring; Or be sent unto your Loves, With fine Handkerchers, Gloves: I do know that, like my dart, They have power to wound the heart; For instead of Flowers and Roses, Here are Words bound up in Posies.