New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.
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, couldst thou find none other
To wreak thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.”
Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak: