Classic Poem

His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied,
Sly Cupid always on new mischiefs bent,
To the rich field and furrowed tillage went;
Like any plowman toiled the little god,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sowed,
Then sat and laughed, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove:
"Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And as I bid you, let it shine or rain;
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, or draw the servile plow;
What once Europa was, Nannette is now."