XV.

A HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.

This song is a kind of translation of a pretty poem of Tasso's, called _Amore fuggitivo_, generally printed with his _Aminta_, and originally imitated from the first Idyllium of Moschus.

It is extracted from Ben Jonson's Masque at the marriage of lord viscount Hadington, on Shrove-Tuesday, 1608. One stanza full of dry mythology is here omitted, as it had been dropped in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called _Le Prince d'Amour_. Lond. 1660, 8vo.

* * * * *

[The stanza of the first Grace which Percy left out is as follows:--

"At his sight the sun hath turn'd, Neptune in the waters burn'd; Hell hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook his seat: From the centre to the sky Are his trophies reared high."]

* * * * *

[_1 Grace._] Beauties have yee seen a toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blinde; Cruel now; and then as kinde? If he be amongst yee, say; 5 He is Venus' run away.

[_2 Grace._] Shee, that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kisse, How and where herselfe would wish: 10 But who brings him to his mother Shall have that kisse, and another.

[_3 Grace._] Markes he hath about him plentie; You may know him among twentie: All his body is a fire, 15 And his breath a flame entire: Which, being shot, like lightning, in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

* * * * *

[_2 Grace._] Wings he hath, which though yee clip, He will leape from lip to lip, 20 Over liver, lights, and heart; Yet not stay in any part. And, if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himselfe in kisses.

[_3 Grace._] He doth beare a golden bow, 25 And a quiver hanging low, Full of arrowes, which outbrave Dian's shafts; where, if he have Any head more sharpe than other, With that first he strikes his mother. 30

[_1 Grace._] Still the fairest are his fuell, When his daies are to be cruell; Lovers hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest bloud: Nought but wounds his hand doth season, 35 And he hates none like to Reason.

[_2 Grace._] Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldome with his heart doe meet: All his practice is deceit; Everie gift is but a bait; 40 Not a kisse but poyson beares; And most treason's in his teares.

[_3 Grace._] Idle minutes are his raigne; Then the straggler makes his gaine, By presenting maids with toyes 45 And would have yee thinke hem joyes; 'Tis the ambition of the elfe To have all childish as himselfe.

[_1 Grace._] If by these yee please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 50 [_2 Grace._] Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him. [_3 Grace._] Since yee heare this falser's play, And that he is Venus' run-away.