From the towering eagle’s plume
  The generous hearts accept their doom;
  Shot by the peacock’s painted eye
  The vain and airy lovers die: 
  For careful dames and frugal men,
  The shafts are speckled by the hen:  40
  The pies and parrots deck the darts,
  When prattling wins the panting hearts: 
  When from the voice the passions spring,
  The warbling finch affords a wing: 
  Together, by the sparrow stung,
  Down fall the wanton and the young: 
  And fledged by geese the weapons fly,
  When others love they know not why.

  All this (as late I chanced to rove)
  I learn’d in yonder waving grove. 50
  And see, says Love, who call’d me near,
  How much I deal with Nature here;
  How both support a proper part,
  She gives the feather, I the dart: 
  Then cease for souls averse to sigh,
  If Nature cross ye, so do I;
  My weapon there unfeather’d flies,
  And shakes and shuffles through the skies. 
  But if the mutual charms I find
  By which she links you, mind to mind, 60
  They wing my shafts, I poise the darts,
  And strike from both, through both your hearts.

* * * * *

  ANACREONTIC.

  1 Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt’s[1] wine,
      A noble meal bespoke us;
    And for the guests that were to dine,
      Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.

  2 The god near Cupid drew his chair,
      Near Comus, Jocus placed;
    For wine makes Love forget its care,
      And Mirth exalts a feast.

  3 The more to please the sprightly god,
      Each sweet engaging Grace
    Put on some clothes to come abroad,
      And took a waiter’s place.

  4 Then Cupid named at every glass
      A lady of the sky;
    While Bacchus swore he’d drink the lass,
      And did it bumper-high.

  5 Fat Comus toss’d his brimmers o’er,
      And always got the most;
    Jocus took care to fill him more,
      Whene’er he miss’d the toast.

  6 They call’d, and drank at every touch;
      He fill’d, and drank again;
    And if the gods can take too much,
      ’Tis said they did so then.

  7 Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung,
      By reckoning his deceits;
    And Cupid mock’d his stammering tongue,
      With all his staggering gaits: 

  8 And Jocus droll’d on Comus’ ways,
      And tales without a jest;
    While Comus call’d his witty plays
      But waggeries at best.

   9 Such talk soon set ’em all at odds;
       And, had I Homer’s pen,
     I’d sing ye, how they drank like gods,
       And how they fought like men.

  10 To part the fray, the Graces fly,
       Who make ’em soon agree;
     Nay, had the Furies selves been nigh,
       They still were three to three.