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WILLIAM BLAKE

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
   And Phœbus fired my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
   And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
   Then, laughing, sports and plays with me
Then stretches out my golden wing,
   And mocks my loss of liberty.

The playful character ascribed to the prince of love, and especially his wanton and fantastic action while sporting with his captive, in the two last stanzas, render it probable that the author had read the Hue and Cry after Cupid. If so, it had made its impression; but the lines could scarcely have been remembered at the time of writing or the resemblance would have been closer. The stanzas, to which I especially allude, are these.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
   He will leap from lip to lip,
   Over liver, lights, and heart,
   But not stay in any part;
   And, if chance his arrow misses,
   He will shoot himself, in kisses.

Idle minutes are his reign;
   Then the straggler makes his gain,
   By presenting maids with toys,
   And would have ye think 'em joys:
   'Tis th' ambition of the elf,
   To have all childish as himself.

The two following little pieces are added, as