FROM
THE TRIUMPHS OF PETRARCH.
THE GOD OF LOVE.
—There then I saw four coursers fair,
More white than any snaw,
A childish boy, and youngling raw,
In fiery chair to draw:
More white than any snaw,
A childish boy, and youngling raw,
In fiery chair to draw:
Who, in his hand, his bow did bear,
His arrows by his fide,
As neither helmet nor yet targe
Their piercing shots can bide.
His arrows by his fide,
As neither helmet nor yet targe
Their piercing shots can bide.
Above his shoulders, there were placed
Two flying feathered wings,
Embroidered with ten thousand hues,
All bare in other things.
Two flying feathered wings,
Embroidered with ten thousand hues,
All bare in other things.
And round about him there did stand,
And round about his chair,
A number of such mortal men,
That none can them declare.
And round about his chair,
A number of such mortal men,
That none can them declare.
