Out Of Moschus One Of The Minor Poets, Or Cupid Run Away. Poem by Daniel Baker

Cupid was lost, and all about
His Mother ran to seek him out.
Through Town and Field, through Earth and Skies,
Through young Men's Hearts, and Maidens Eyes,
O'er Sea and Land, drawn with a Pair
Of Milk--white Doves she cut the Air,
But after many a Mile she'd past
Her little Steeds grew tir'd at last:
Then seeing she could no where spie him
She stood, and thus began to crie him.

O Yes! Whoever can descrie
The Place where Love conceal'd does lie,
Let him repair to me and take
A soft Kiss for his Tidings sake:
But he that brings him home shall meet
A Kiss, and something else more sweet.
Yet first, lest haply he deceive you,
Take these Marks which I will give you,
Marks which easily will shew him,
'Mongst a Thousand you may know him.

His Skin, like Blushes which adorn
The Bosom of the rising Morn,
All over Ruddle is, and from
His flaming Eyes quick glances come.
His Meaning's Roguish, but his Tongue
He handles well, 'tis sweetly hung.
His Words you never once shall find
The genu'ine Picture of his Mind.
His Voice like Honey drops, but when
He's angry, O be warie; then
He's false and fell, and Pleasure takes
In the Miseries he makes.
Fair Curls his golden Temples grace;
A wanton Air sets off his Face.
His Hands are very small: but, oh!
The Distance they his Arrows throw!
Ev'n Hell itself, and its stern Lord
Have felt their Force, and loudly roar'd.
His Body's naked, as if he
Delighted in simplicity:
But, oh! his Soul, that cloathed is
With manifold Hypocrisies.
He neither Age, nor Sex will spare,
But shoots his Arrows ev'ry where.
And like a wanton Bird, he flies,
And hovers o'er you, till he spies
A way to dart into your Breast,
And in your Liver build his Nest.
Upon his Shoulder you may spie
A golden Quiver; in it lie
His winged Shafts, which often make
High Heav'n and mighty Jove to quake.
Nor God, nor Mortal can withstand
The Force of his resistless Hand.
As Death, impartial, none are free
From his wide--wasting Tyranny.
Kings and Swains do all adore him:
Queens and Milk maids fall before him:
He pities neither one nor other;
No, not me, his one dear Mother.
His little Torch to Heav'n will flie
And make old Phoebus burn and frie
In Flames more hot by far than those
He on the scorched Æthiop throws.

Such is my Son. Whoe'er shall find him
Let him catch him, let him bind him,
And render to my hands the Prize,
And if from his dissembling Eyes
The Tears do trickle, do not spare him;
Tho he flatter do not hear him
Whether he sigh, or smile, or pray,
Bring him ne'ertheless away.
If a Kiss he offer to you,
O, beware; it will undo you.
His Lips are Poyson, and his Breath
Scatter Plagues far worse than Death.
But if he, to let him go,
Offer you his Shafts and Bow,
O! touch them not: the Gifts of Love
Will like Fire, destructive prove.