Cupid Mistaken
As after noon, one summer's day,
Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart:
With all his might his bow he drew:
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well-guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die! the Goddess cry'd:
O cruel, could'st thou find none other,
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak;
Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye:
Alas! how easy my mistake?
I took you for your likeness, Cloe.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Related quotes
Venus Mistaken
When Cloe's Picture was to Venus shown;
Surpriz'd, the Goddess took it for Her own.
And what, said She, does this bold Painter mean?
When was I Bathing thus, and Naked seen?
Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd His Mother's Pride:
And who's blind now, Mamma? the Urchin cry'd.
'Tis Cloe's Eye, and Cheek, and Lip, and Breast:
Friend Howard's Genius fancy'd all the rest.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Cupid's Promise - Paraphrased
Soft Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
The other day, moved with my lyre,
In flattering accents spoke his joy,
And uttered thus his fond desire.
Oh! raise thy voice, one song I ask,
Touch then th' harmonious string;
To Thyrsis easy is the task,
Who can so sweetly play and sing.
Two kisses from my mother dear,
Thyrsis, thy due reward shall be;
None, none like Beauty's queen is fair;
Paris has vouch'd this truth for me.
I straight reply'd, thou know'st alone,
That brightest Cloe rules my breast,
I'll sing thee two instead of one
If thou'lt be kind and make me blest.
One kiss from Cloe's lips, no more
I crave. He promised me success;
I play'd with all my skill and power,
My glowing passion to express.
But, oh! my Cloe, beauteous maid,
Wilt thou the wish'd reward bestow?
Wilt thou make good what Love has said,
And by thy grant his power show?
poem by Matthew Prior
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Love Disarmed
Beneath a Myrtle's verdant Shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on Her Breast,
And in That Heav'n desir'd to rest:
Over her Paps his Wings He spread:
Between He found a downy Bed,
And nestl'd in His little Head.
Still lay the God: The Nymph surpriz'd,
Yet Mistress of her self, devis'd,
How She the Vagrant might inthral,
And Captive Him, who Captives All.
Her Boddice half way She unlac'd:
About his Arms She slily cast
The silken Bond, and held Him fast.
The God awak'd; and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel Chain;
And thrice in vain He shook his Wing,
Incumber'd in the silken String.
Flutt'ring the God, and weeping said,
Pity poor Cupid, generous Maid,
Who happen'd, being Blind, to stray,
And on thy Bosom lost his Way:
Who stray'd, alas! but knew too well,
He never There must hope to dwell.
Set an unhappy Pris'ner free,
Who ne'er intended Harm to Thee.
To Me pertains not, She replies,
To know or care where Cupid flies;
What are his Haunts, or which his Way;
Where He would dwell, or whither stray:
Yet will I never set Thee free:
For Harm was meant, and Harm to Me.
Vain Fears that vex thy Virgin Heart!
I'll give Thee up my Bow and Dart:
Untangle but this cruel Chain,
And freely let Me fly again.
Agreed: Secure my Virgin Heart:
Instant give up thy Bow and Dart:
The Chain I'll in Return unty;
And freely Thou again shalt fly.
Thus She the Captive did deliver:
The Captive thus gave up his Quiver.
The God disarm'd, e'er since that Day
Passes his Life in harmless Play;
Flies round, or sits upon her Breast,
A little, flutt'ring, idle Guest.
E'er since that Day the beauteous Maid
Governs the World in Cupid's stead;
Directs his Arrow as She wills;
Gives Grief, or Pleasure; spares, or kills.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Sonnet XXXVI: Thou Purblind Boy
Cupid Conjured
Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack
To wound her heart, whose eyes have wounded me,
And suffer'd her to glory in my wrack,
Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee:
By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears,
By thy fair mother's unavoided power,
By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears
When she was rapt to the infernal bower,
By thine own loved Psyche, by the fires
Spent on thine alters flaming up to heav'n,
By all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires,
By all the wounds that ever thou hast giv'n:
I conjure thee by all that I have nam'd
To make her love, or, Cupid, be thou damn'd.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Cupid Smiles
Swift is the arrow
from Cupid’s bow,
where it will fly,
nobody knows.
Will it land in you,
or will it land in me?
No one will see it,
until it is there.
The world will then notice,
the love in their eyes,
and Cupid will smile
as he watches from high
at our antics below.
Then he will take another
arrow from his quiver
and again it will fly
as he sits there
smiling from on high.
poem by David Harris
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Sonnet 72: Desire, Though Thou My Old Companion Art
Desire, though thou my old companion art,
And oft so clings to my pure love, that I
One from the other scarcely can descry,
While each doth blow the fire of my heart;
Now from thy felloswhip I needs must part,
Venus is taught with Dian's wings to fly:
I must no more in thy sweet passions lie;
Virtue's gold now must head my Cupid's dart.
Service and honor, wonder with delight,
Fear to offend, will worthy to appear,
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite:
These things are left me by my only dear;
But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,
Now banish'd art. But yet alas how shall?
poem by Philip Sidney
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A Better Answer
Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty Face?
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaf says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How can'st thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found Wit:
Od's Life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shews
The diff'rence there is betwixt Nature and Art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know child) the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am weary'd with wand'ring all day,
To thee my delight in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way:
They were but my visits; but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Children Of Love
The holy boy
Went from his mother out in the cool of the day
Over the sun-parched fields
And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.
There was no sound,
No smallest voice of any shivering stream.
Poor sinless little boy,
He desired to play and to sing; he could only sigh and dream.
Suddenly came
Running along to him naked, with curly hair,
That rogue of the lovely world,
That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.
The holy boy
Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know.
Impudent Cupid stood
Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.
(Will you not play?
Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy.
Is he not holy, like you?
Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)
And now they stand
Watching one another with timid gaze;
Youth has met youth in the wood,
But holiness will not change its melancholy ways.
Cupid at last
Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart.
Smile for a moment, sad world! -
It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart.
Now, for delight,
Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near;
But the child that was born to the cross
Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compassionate tear.
Marvellous dream!
Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try
He as offered his bow for the game.
But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why.
poem by Harold Monro
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Mother Bombie
Sil.
O Cupid ! Monarch ouer Kings,
Wherefore hast thou feete and wings?
It is to shew how swift thou art,
When thou wound'st a tender heart:
Thy wings being clip'd, and feete held still,
Thy Bow so many could not kill.
Acc.
It is all one in Venus wanton schoole,
Who highest sits, the wise man or the foole:
Fooles in loues colledge
Haue farre more knowledge,
To reade a woman ouer,
Than a neate prating louer.
Nay, tis confest,
That fooles please women best.
Sonnet LII: What? Dost Thou Mean
What? Dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart?
To take all mine and give me none again?
Or have thine eyes such magic or that art
That what they get they ever do retain?
Play not the tyrant, but take some remorse;
Rebate thy spleen, if but for pity's sake;
Or, cruel, if thou canst not, let us 'scourse,
And, for one piece of thine, my whole heart take.
But what of pity do I speak to thee,
Whose breast is proof against complaint or prayer?
Or can I think what my reward shall be
From that proud beauty, which was my betrayer?
What talk I of a heart, when thou hast none?
Or, if thou hast, it is a flinty one.
poem by Michael Drayton
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The Dove
In Virgil's Sacred Verse we find,
That Passion can depress or raise
The Heav'nly, as the Human Mind:
Who dare deny what Virgil says?
But if They shou'd; what our Great Master
Has thus laid down, my Tale shall prove.
Fair Venus wept the sad Disaster
Of having lost her Fav'rite Dove.
In Complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;
His Grief reliev'd his Mother's Pain;
He vow'd he'd leave no Stone unturn'd,
But She shou'd have her Dove again.
Tho' None, said He, shall yet be nam'd,
I know the Felon well enough:
But be She not, Mamma, condemn'd
Without a fair and legal Proof.
With that, his longest Dart he took,
As Constable wou'd take his Staff:
That Gods desire like Men to look,
Wou'd make ev'n Heraclitus laugh.
Loves Subaltern, a Duteous Band,
Like Watchmen round their Chief appear:
Each had his Lanthorn in his Hand:
And Venus mask'd brought up the Rear.
Accouter'd thus, their eager Step
To Cloe's Lodging They directed:
(At once I write, alas! and weep,
That Cloe is of Theft suspected.)
Late They set out, had far to go:
St. Dunstan's, as They pass'd, struck One.
Cloe, for Reasons good, You know,
Lives at the sober End o'th' Town.
With one great Peal They rap the Door,
Like Footmen on a Visiting-Day.
Folks at Her House at such an Hour!
Lord! what will all the Neighbours say?
The Door is open'd: up They run:
Nor Prayers, nor Threats divert their Speed:
Thieves, Thieves! cries Susan; We're undone;
They'll kill my Mistress in her Bed.
In Bed indeed the Nymph had been
Three Hours: for all Historians say,
She commonly went up at Ten,
Unless Picquet was in the Way.
She wak'd, be sure, with strange Surprize.
O Cupid, is this Right or Law,
Thus to disturb the brightest Eyes,
That ever slept, or ever saw?
Have You observ'd a sitting Hare,
List'ning, and fearful of the Storm
Of Horns and Hounds, clap back her Ear,
Afraid to keep, or leave her Form?
Or have You mark'd a Partridge quake,
Viewing the tow'ring Faulcon nigh?
She cuddles low behind the Brake:
Nor wou'd she stay: nor dares she fly.
Then have You seen the Beauteous Maid;
When gazing on her Midnight Foes,
She turn'd each Way her frighted Head,
Then sunk it deap beneath the Cloaths.
Venus this while was in the Chamber
Incognito: for Susan said,
It smelt so strong of Myrrh and Amber—
And Susan is no lying Maid.
But since We have no present Need
Of Venus for an Episode;
With Cupid let us e'en proceed;
And thus to Cloe spoke the God:
Hold up your Head: hold up your Hand:
Wou'd it were not my Lot to show ye
This cruel Writ, wherein you stand
Indicted by the Name of Cloe:
For that by secret Malice stirr'd,
Or by an emulous Pride invited,
You have purloin'd the fav'rite Bird,
In which my Mother most delighted.
Her blushing Face the lovely Maid
Rais'd just above the milk-white Sheet.
A Rose-Tree in a Lilly Bed,
Nor glows so red, nor breathes so sweet.
Are You not He whom Virgins fear,
And Widows court? Is not your Name
Cupid? If so, pray come not near—
Fair Maiden, I'm the very same.
Then what have I, good Sir, to say,
Or do with Her, You call your Mother?
If I shou'd meet Her in my Way,
We hardly court'sy to each other.
Diana Chaste, and Hebe Sweet,
Witness that what I speak is true:
I wou'd not give my Paroquet
For all the Doves that ever flew.
Yet, to compose this Midnight Noise,
Go freely search where-e'er you please:
(The Rage that rais'd, adorn'd Her Voice)
Upon yon' Toilet lie my Keys.
Her Keys He takes; her Doors unlocks;
Thro' Wardrobe, and thro' Closet bounces;
Peeps into ev'ry Chest and Box;
Turns all her Furbeloes and Flounces.
But Dove, depend on't, finds He none;
So to the Bed returns again:
And now the Maiden, bolder grown,
Begins to treat Him with Disdain.
I marvel much, She smiling said,
Your Poultry cannot yet be found:
Lies he in yonder Slipper dead,
Or, may be, in the Tea-pot drown'd?
No, Traytor, angry Love replies,
He's hid somewhere about Your Breast;
A Place, nor God, nor Man denies,
For Venus' Dove the proper Nest.
Search then, She said, put in your Hand,
And Cynthia, dear Protectress, guard Me:
As guilty I, or free may stand,
Do Thou, or punish, or reward Me.
But ah! what Maid to Love can trust?
He scorns, and breaks all Legal Power:
Into her Breast his Hand He thrust;
And in a Moment forc'd it lower.
O, whither do those Fingers rove,
Cries Cloe, treacherous Urchin, whither?
O Venus! I shall find thy Dove,
Says He; for sure I touch his Feather.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Apelles' Song
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
And last he set her both his eyes -
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
Cupid and My Campaspe
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses;
Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves and team of sparrows,
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me?
Oh Cupid, Oh My Love
Let the gentle breeze,
Flow through me
For I feel so much dizzy
Because it cupid who lives in me
Oh cupid, oh my love
Strong and desiring cupid
For you fame flies like dove
For the man who would not believe is so stupid
Draw your arrow from within
And struck through my heart
For you there is nothing like sin
Who wouldn't believe that except the madman in heart
For you cupid I praise and behold
Even when I wonder through land unsuveyed
My heart would never be sick from cold
And my friend would grow jealous everyday
No one knows you
Better than I do
For you reside within me
Oh cupid, oh my love
poem by Samuel Donkor
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An Ode To Mr. Howard
Dear Howard, from the soft assaults of love
Poets and painters never are secure;
Can I untouch'd the fair one's passions move,
Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its power?
To great Appelles when young Ammon brought
The darling idol of his captive heart;
And the pleased nymph with kind attention sat,
To have her charms recorded by his art:
The amorous master own'd her potent eyes:
Sigh'd when he look'd, and trembled as he drew:
Each flowing line confirm'd his first surprise,
And, as the piece advanced, the passion grew.
While Philip's son, while Venus' son, was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel?
Great was the rival, and the god severe:
Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal.
The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms,
With pity saw the ill-conceal'd distress;
Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms,
And gave the fair one to the friend's embrace.
Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee,
Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art:
But happy thou, from Cupid's arrow free,
And flames that pierced thy predecessor's heart!
Had thy poor breast received an equal pain;
Had I been vested with the monarch's power;
Thou must have sigh'd, unlucky youth, in vain;
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure.
Though, to convince thee that the friend did feel
A kind concern for thy ill-fated care,
I would have sooth'd thy flame I could not heal;
Given thee the world; though I withheld the fair.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Mercury And Cupid
In sullen Humour one Day Jove
Sent Hermes down to Ida's Grove,
Commanding Cupid to deliver
His Store of Darts, his total Quiver;
That Hermes shou'd the Weapons break,
Or throw 'em into Lethe's Lake.
Hermes, You know, must do his Errand:
He found his Man, produc'd his Warrant:
Cupid, your Darts-this very Hour-
There's no contending against Power.
How sullen Jupiter, just now
I think I said: and You'll allow,
That Cupid was as bad as He:
Hear but the Youngster's Repartee.
Come Kinsman (said the little God)
Put off your Wings; lay by your Rod;
Retire with Me to yonder Bower;
And rest your self for half an Hour:
'Tis far indeed from hence to Heav'n:
And You fly fast: and 'tis but Seven.
We'll take one cooling Cup of Nectar;
And drink to this Celestial Hector-
He break my Darts, or hurt my Pow'r!
He, Leda's Swan, and Danae's Show'r!
Go, bid him his Wife's Tongue restrain;
And mind his Thunder, and his Rain.-
My Darts? O certainly I'll give 'em:
From Cloe's Eyes He shall receive 'em.
There's One, the Best in all my Quiver,
Twang! thro' his very Heart and Liver.
He then shall Pine, and Sigh, and Rave:
Good Lord! what Bustle shall We have!
Neptune must straight be sent to Sea;
And Flora summon'd twice a-day:
One must find Shells, and t'other Flow'rs,
For cooling Grotts, and fragrant Bow'rs,
That Cloe may be serv'd in State:
The Hours must at Her Toilet wait:
Whilst all the reasoning Fools below,
Wonder their Watches go too slow.
Lybs must fly South, and Eurus East,
For Jewels for Her Hair and Breast:
No Matter tho' their cruel Haste
Sink Cities, and lay Forrests waste.
No Matter tho' This Fleet be lost;
Or That lie wind-bound on the Coast.
What whis'pring in my Mother's Ear!
What Care, that Juno shou'd not hear!
What Work among You Scholar Gods!
Phoebus must write Him am'rous Odes:
And Thou, poor Cousin, must compose
His Letters in submissive Prose:
Whilst haughty Cloe, to sustain
The Honour of My mystic Reign,
Shall all his Gifts and Vows disdain;
And laugh at your Old Bully's Pain.
Dear Couz, said Hermes in a Fright,
For Heav'n sake keep Your Darts: Good Night.
poem by Matthew Prior
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The Arrow
An arrow flew right through the air.
It flew from your eyes to my heart.
I felt the pierce but did not care
for I let the pain depart.
Only the pleasure from the eyes that sent it
was what I looked upon.
I knew I could withstand many arrows
until your eyes were gone.
Cupid, Cupid where have you been?
I didn't know you exist.
I thought you were just a fable
with a fictitious list.
But that list included me at last
and the arrow was so real.
I accepted it and praised it
for how it made me feel.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sonnet: On the Condom
O sheath divine, of latex- Thou art great!
In serving mankind in these awful days;
Praise-worthy is thy sexual use till date;
Thou aidst both males and females in love’s ways!
What tons of sperms, thou must have prevented!
And helped all ages sense Cupid, Venus;
The STD pandemic, thou curtailed;
And made sex safer, blissful, without fuss.
Thine service to sex-workers knows no words;
Preventing much unwanted human birth;
Alas, mis-guided ones behave like herds!
Unnatural, perverted sex has gained girth.
Thro’ thee, the population-clock is slack;
Adultery, God’s anger are now back!
poem by John Celes
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Troy Town
HEAVENBORN Helen, Sparta's queen,
(O Troy Town!)
Had two breasts of heavenly sheen,
The sun and moon of the heart's desire:
All Love's lordship lay between.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Helen knelt at Venus' shrine,
(O Troy Town!)
Saying, “A little gift is mine,
A little gift for a heart's desire.
Hear me speak and make me a sign!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Look, I bring thee a carven cup;
(O Troy Town!)
See it here as I hold it up,—
Shaped it is to the heart's desire,
Fit to fill when the gods would sup.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“It was moulded like my breast;
(O Troy Town!)
He that sees it may not rest,
Rest at all for his heart's desire.
O give ear to my heart's behest!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“See my breast, how like it is;
(O Troy Town!)
See it bare for the air to kiss!
Is the cup to thy heart's desire?
O for the breast, O make it his!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Yea, for my bosom here I sue;
(O Troy Town!)
Thou must give it where 'tis due,
Give it there to the heart's desire.
Whom do I give my bosom to?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Each twin breast is an apple sweet.
(O Troy Town!)
Once an apple stirred the beat
Of thy heart with the heart's desire:—
Say, who brought it then to thy feet?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“They that claimed it then were three:
(O Troy Town!)
For thy sake two hearts did he
Make forlorn of the heart's desire.
Do for him as he did for thee!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Mine are apples grown to the south,
(O Troy Town!)
Grown to taste in the days of drouth,
Taste and waste to the heart's desire:
Mine are apples meet for his mouth.”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked on Helen's gift,
(O Troy Town!)
Looked and smiled with subtle drift,
Saw the work of her heart's desire:—
“There thou kneel'st for Love to lift!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked in Helen's face,
(O Troy Town!)
Knew far off an hour and place,
And fire lit from the heart's desire;
Laughed and said, “Thy gift hath grace!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid looked on Helen's breast,
(O Troy Town!)
Saw the heart within its nest,
Saw the flame of the heart's desire,—
Marked his arrow's burning crest.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid took another dart,
(O Troy Town!)
Fledged it for another heart,
Winged the shaft with the heart's desire,
Drew the string and said, “Depart!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Paris turned upon his bed,
(O Troy Town!)
Turned upon his bed and said,
Dead at heart with the heart's desire—
“Oh to clasp her golden head!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Cards and Kisses
CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses--Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes--
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?