Cupid's Arrows

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow; "'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say, 'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow. There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim; 'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name.

"I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare, I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; 'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; But it falls without touching—I'll break it, I vow, For there's Hymen beginning to pout; He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low, That Zephyr might puff it right out."

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored; "There, take it, young sir; try it now—if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made, The wounded and dead were untold; But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with gold.