Classic Poem

Ode III

Of late, what time the Beare turn'd round
At midnight in her woonted way,
And men of all sorts slept full sound,
O'recome with labour of the day.

The God of Love came to my dore,
And tooke the ring and knockt it hard.
Who's there, quoth I, that knocks so sore,
You breake my sleepe, my dreames are marde?

A little boy forsooth, quoth hee,
Dung-wet with raine this Moonelesse night;
With that mee thought it pittied mee,
I ope the dore, and candle light.

And straight a little boy I spide,
A winged Boy with shaftes and bow,
I tooke him to the fire side,
And set him downe to warme him so.

His little hands in mine I straine,
To rub and warme them therewithall:
Out of his locks I crush the raine,
From which the drops apace downe fall.

At last, when he was waxen warme,
Now let me try my bow, quoth hee,
I feare my string hath caught some harme,
And wet, will prove too slacke for mee.

Hee said, and bent his bow, and shot,
And wightly hit me in the hart;
The wound was sore and raging hot,
The heate like fury rekes my smart.

Mine host, quoth he, my string is well,
And laugh't, so that he leapt againe:
Looke to your wound for feare it swell,
Your heart may hap to feele the paine.