Xxxvi

O what a wound and what a deadly stroke, Doth Cupid give to us perplexèd lovers, Which cleaves more fast then ivy doth to oak, Unto our hearts where he his might discovers! Though warlike Mars were armèd at all points, With that tried coat which fiery Vulcan made, Love's shafts did penetrate his steelèd joints, And in his breast in streaming gore did wade. So pitiless is this fell conqueror That in his mother's paps his arrows stuck; Such is his rage that he doth not defer To wound those orbs from whence he life did suck. Then sith no mercy he shows to his mother, We meekly must his force and rigour smother.