SONNET.—AMOR.
Cui amor nunc est similis? Of old
Painted they thee like beauteous boy, with bow
And quiver full of arrows tipped with gold,
Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know—
Now, see we thee like to the fading flower,
Which in the morning richest sweets disclose;
Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose,
Which sets herself to die at evening hour—
Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite,