If Cupid keepe his quiuer in thine eye,
And shoote at ouer-daring, gasers hartes,
Alas why be not men afrayde, and flye
As from Medusaes, doubting after smartes?
Ah when he drawes his string, none sees his bow,
Nor heares his golden fethred arrowes sing,
Ay me till it be shot no man doth know,
Vntill his hart be pricked with the sting,
Like semblance beares the musket in the field,
It hittes, and killes vnseene, till vnawares
To death the wounded man his body yeeld,
And thus a pesant, Caesars glorie dares:
This diffrence left, twixt Mars his field, and loues,
That Cupids souldior shot, more torture proues.