Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned in the west.
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft
Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon.
And the imperial vot’ress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: