To Cressida

O Cupid is a wanton lad And like all little boys, He seems to have no other care But toys, and still more toys…

You pluck your heart out from your breast And give it in his hand, He seems so innocently kind. You know he’ll understand.

He holds it on his hand the while The moonlight gilds it o’er, And says, “It’s very pretty, yes; But—have you any more?”