LXX.
Mars and Cupid.
Now, now the fight's done, and the great god of war
Lies sleeping in shades, and unruffles his care.
Love laughs at his rest, and his souldiers alarmes,
He drums, and he trumpets, and struts in his armes;
He rides on his lance, and the bushes he bangs,
And his broad bloody sword on the willow tree hangs.
Lies sleeping in shades, and unruffles his care.
Love laughs at his rest, and his souldiers alarmes,
He drums, and he trumpets, and struts in his armes;
He rides on his lance, and the bushes he bangs,
And his broad bloody sword on the willow tree hangs.
Love smiles when he feeles the sharp point of his dart,
And he wings it to hit the grim god at the hart,
Who leaves his steele bed, and boulsters of brasse,
For pillowes of roses, and couches of grasse:
His courser of lightning is now grown soe slow,
In the saddle a Cupid sits bending his bow.
And he wings it to hit the grim god at the hart,
Who leaves his steele bed, and boulsters of brasse,
For pillowes of roses, and couches of grasse:
His courser of lightning is now grown soe slow,
In the saddle a Cupid sits bending his bow.