Now whither are you flying

And on what game intent,

Cupid? There’s no denying

On mischief you are bent.

What is the use of trying

To look so innocent?

What means your empty quiver?

Did heart of some coquette

Your golden arrows shiver?

Or did you, boy, upset

Your darts in Lethe’s river,

Or break them in a pet?

What is it you’re concealing,

My patience to annoy?

A heart you have been stealing,

Or some such foolish toy?

Come, now—no double-dealing!

Out with it—Cupid, boy!

“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,

“A thing wherewith to hew

Cold hearts” (he hinted slyly

That such a heart I knew).

“’Tis recommended highly—

An ice-pick—what say you?”

Gravely I shake my finger

At Cupid—“’Tis indeed

The very thing to bring her

To reason, boy, so speed!

Fly, Cupid! Do not linger—

Jove grant you may succeed!”