Little Cupid, one day, being wearied with play, Or weary of nothing to do, Exclaimed with a sigh, "Now why should not I Go shoot for a minute or two?" Then snatching his bow, tho' Venus cried "No," (Oh! Love is a mischievous boy!) He set up a mark, in the midst of a park, And began his nice sport to enjoy. Each arrow he shot—I cannot tell what Was the reason—fell short by a yard, Save one with gold head, which far better sped, And pierced thro' the heart of the card. MORAL. My story discovers this lesson to lovers: They will meet a reception but cold, And endeavour in vain Beauty's smiles to obtain, Unless Love tip his arrows with gold.
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