With that, his longest dart he took, Love's subalterns, a duteous band, Like watchmen round their chief appear: Each had his lantern in his hand: And Venus mask'd brought up the rear. Accoutred thus, their eager step To Cloe's lodging they directed: (At once I write, alas! and weep, That Cloe is of theft suspected.) Late they set out, had far to go: St. Dunstan's, as they pass'd, struck one. Cloe, for reasons good, you know, Lives at the sober end o' th' town. With one great peal they rap the door, Folks at her house at such an hour! Lord! what will all the neighbours say? The door is open up they run: Nor prayers, nor threats divert their speed: Thieves! thieves! cries Susan; we're undone ; They'll kill my mistress in her bed. In bed indeed the nymph had been Unless piquet was in the way. She wak'd, be sure, with strange surprise, Have you observ'd a sitting hare, Of horns and hounds, clap back her ear, Or have you mark'd a partridge quake, Viewing the towering falcon nigh? She cuddles low behind the brake: Nor would she stay; nor dares she fly. Then have you seen the beauteous maid; When gazing on her midnight foes, She turn'd each way her frighted head, Then sunk it deep beneath the clothes. Venus this while was in the chamber It smelt so strong of myrrh and amber— But since we have no present need With Cupid let us e'en proceed; And thus to Cloe spoke the god: Hold up your head: hold up your hand Would it were not my lot to show ye This cruel writ, wherein you stand Indicted by the name of Cloe: For that by secret malice stirr'd, In which my mother most delighted. Her blushing face the lovely maid Rais'd just above the milk-white sheet, A rose-tree in a lily bed Nor glows so red, nor breathes so sweet. Are you not he whom virgins fear, And widows court? is not your name Cupid? If so, pray come not near— Fair maiden, I'm the very same. Then what have I, good Sir, to say, Or do with her, you call your mother? If I should meet her in my way, We hardly courtesy to each other. Diana chaste, and Hebe sweet, For all the Doves that ever flew. Yet, to compose this midnight noise, Her keys he takes; her doors unlocks: Through wardrobe, and through closet bounces; Peeps into every chest and box; Turns all her furbelows and flounces. But Dove, depend on't, finds he none; I marvel much, she smiling said, Lies he in yonder slipper dead, Or may be, in the tea-pot drown'd? No, traitor, angry Love replies, He's hid somewhere about your breast; A place nor god nor man denies, For Venus' Dove the proper nest. Search then, she said, put in your hand, Do thou, or punish, or reward me. But ah! what maid to Love can trust; And in a moment forc'd it lower. O, whither do those fingers rove, Cries Cloe, treacherous urchin, whither? A LOVER'S ANGER. As Cloe came into the room t'other day, |