I.

Time was, if poets tell us true,
When Cupid shot envenomed arrows,
They pierced the heart quite through and through,
And killed Arcadians like cock-sparrows.
What say our modern gentlemen?
Can Cupid's darts with poison fill us?
No, faith, they tickle now and then,
But curse me if they ever kill us!

II.

The Mother of the spiteful Boy
Left many likenesses behind her;
And if we find one Venus coy,
We soon may meet a dozen kinder.
Then what is love? A bagatelle;
What are the pains that we endure for 't?
A bottle often makes us well,
But marriage is a certain cure for't!