You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings, And soar with them above a common bound.
Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow,—she hath Dian’s wit; And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but ’Ah me!’ pronounce but Love and dove; Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname for her purblind son and heir, Young auburn Cupid, he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid!
The date is out of such prolixity: We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance: But, let them measure us by what they will, We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.
— O, she is lame! love’s heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams, Driving back shadows over lowering hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.