Once Venus, deeming Love too fat,

Stopp'd all his rich ambrosial dishes,

Dooming the boy to live on chat,

To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.

Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—

The starveling now no beauty boasted—

He could have munch'd Minerva's owl,

Or Juno's peacock, boil'd or roasted.

At last, half famish'd, almost dead,

He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;

Young Lillie, passing, shook her head—

Cried Love, "A shot at you, young sinner!"

"Oh not at me!"—she urged her flight—

"I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!"

"No"—fainting Cupid cried—"not quite;

But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!"

L. B.