Sonnets: Idea XLVIII

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'd have thee know; A naked starveling ever mayst thou be! Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow For some poor rags wherewith to cover thee; Or if thou'lt not thy archery forbear, To some base rustic do thyself prefer, And when corn's sown or grown into the ear, Practice thy quiver and turn crowkeeper; Or being blind, as fittest for the trade, Go hire thyself some bungling harper's boy; They that are blind are minstrels often made, So mayst thou live to thy fair mother's joy; That whilst with Mars she holdeth her old way, Thou, her blind son, mayst sit by them and play.