Cupid's Bow

From dimpled youth to wrinkled age; The hero, monarch, and the sage; My rights divine allow: And own a throbbing tickling smart, Which wantons in each mortal's heart, When Cupid bends the bow.

The rustic swain, the village lass, Who trip it lightly o'er the grass, Oft' feel they know not how: And fondly gaze, and fairly sigh, And shamefac'd blush, they know not why, When Cupid bends the bow.

Great Jove, whom deities adore, Has often yielded to my pow'r, And felt his bosom glow: E'en Pluto vainly 'gainst me strove, He willing owns the pow'r of love, When Cupid bends the bow.