Of Love.
CUPID[3] is an idle toy,
Never was there such a boy:
If there were, let any show
Or his quiver or his bow,
Or the wound by him he got
By a broken arrow shot.
Money, Money, Money makes men bow;
That's the only Cupid now.
Whilst the world continued good,
And men loved for flesh and blood,
Men about them wore a dart
Which did win a woman's heart;
And the women, great and small,
With a certain thing they call
Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, caught the men:
This was th' only Cupid then.
From Harl. MS. 6917, fol. 87.
WHEN[4] I do love I wish to taste the fruit,
And to attain to what my hopes aspire;
Refusal's better than a lingering suit,
Long hopes do dull and senseless make desire:
And in most desperate case doth he remain
That's sick to death, yet senseless of his pain.
Hope is the bloom, fruition is the fruit;
Hope promises, enjoying is content;
Hope pleads, fruition's an obtained suit;
Enjoying's sweet when hope and fears are spent:
Hopes are uncertain, past pleasures leave some taste,
But sweet fruition always pleaseth best.
From Thomas Campion's Fourth Book of Airs (circ. 1617).
BEAUTY,[5] since you so much desire
To know the place of Cupid's fire,
About you somewhere doth it rest,
Yet never harbour'd in your breast,
Nor gout-like in your heel or toe:
What fool would seek love's flame so low?
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.
Think not when Cupid most you scorn
Men judge that you of ice were born;
For, though you cast love at your heel,
His fury yet sometime you feel:
And whereabouts if you would know,
I tell you still not in your toe:
But a little higher, but a little higher,
There, there, O there lies Cupid's fire.