CUPID'S MINISTERS.

SURE Cupid is no innocent,

No baby pure and artless.

No! lying is his natural bent;

He's fickle, false, and heartless.

And you, my blooming young coquette,

You of the eye that dances,

Are a more hardened sinner yet,

For all your melting glances.

Yes! if he wanted, at this hour,

To break my heart, you'd let him.

By every means within your power

You'd count'nance and abet him.

'T is with your lips he baits his traps,

In preference to berries

(And well he may; for geese, they say,

Like nothing more than cherries).

But when he comes, with beating drums,

A sex entire to martyr,

Your blushes are his crimson flag

To show he gives no quarter.

Your starry eyes his cannon are,

A beaming bullet sending,

To us (like many a shooting star)

Calamity portending.

Ungratefully he dooms to die

Those who his passion cherish;

And you're the bell that rings their knell

When they 're condemned to perish.

If e'er the traitor turns your foe

And shoots, your heart to harrow,

O, may I be the blessed beau

That wings the lucky arrow!

Y.