Fame of Dorinda's conquest brought
The God of Love her charms to view;
To wound th' unwary maid he thought,
But soon became her conquest too.
He dropp'd half-drawn his feeble bow,
He look'd, he raved, and sighing pined;
And wish'd in vain he had been now,
As painters falsely draw him, blind.
Disarm'd, he to his mother flies;
Help, Venus, help thy wretched son!
Who now will pay us sacrifice?
For Love himself's, alas! undone.
To Cupid now no lover's prayer
Shall be address'd in suppliant sighs;
My darts are gone, but, oh! beware,
Fond mortals, of Dorinda's eyes!
John Hughes.