Nurs’d on the bosom of the beauteous spring,
O’er her white breast he spread his purple wing,
On kisses fed, and silver drops of dew,
The little wanton into Cupid grew;
Then arm’d his hand with glitt’ring sparks of fire,
And tipt his shining arrows with desire:
Hence joy arose upon the wings of wind,
And hope presents the lover always kind;
Despair creates a rival for our fears,
And tender pity softens into tears.