Cupid, though blind, yet strikes the heart at last.
His force, you feel! whose power must breed your joy;
This is the meed for scoffs, you on him cast!
You love, who scorned! your love, with scorn is quite!
You love, yet want! your love, with want is spite!
"Love plays the wanton, where she means to kill.
Love rides the fool, and spurs without direction.
Love weeps like you, yet laughs at your good will.
Love is, of all things, but the true confection.