Classic Poem

In Search of her Son, to the listening Crowd,
T'other Day lovely Venus thus cry'd him aloud:
" Whoever may chance a stray Cupid to meet,
" My vagabond Boy, as he strolls in the Street,
" And will bring me the News, his Reward shall be this,
" He may freely demand of fair Venus a Kiss;
" But if to my Arms he the Boy can restore,
" He's welcome to Kisses, and something still more.
" His Marks are so plain, and so many, you'll own
" That among twenty others he's easily known.
" His Skin is not white, but the Colour of Flame;
" His Eyes are most cruel, his Heart is the same:
" His delicate Lips with Persuasion are hung;
" But, ah! how they differ, his Mind and his Tongue!
" His Voice sweet as Honey; but nought can controul,
" Whene'er he's provok'd, his implacable Soul.
" He never speaks Truth, full of Fraud is the Boy;
" And Woe is his Pastime, and Sorrow his Joy.
" His Head is embellish'd with bright curling Hair;
" He has confident Looks, and an insolent Air.
" Though his Hands are but little, yet Darts they can fling
" To the Regions below, and their terrible King.
" His Body quite naked to View is reveal'd,
" But he covers his Mind, and his Thoughts are conceal'd.
" Like a Bird light of Feather, the Branches among,
" He skips here and there, to the old, to the young,
" From the Men to the Maids on a sudden he strays,
" And hid in their Hearts on their Vitals he preys.
" The Bow which he carries is little and light,
" On the Nerve is an Arrow wing'd ready for Flight,
" A little short Arrow, yet swiftly it flies
" Through Regions of Æther, and pierces the Skies.
" A Quiver of Gold on his Shoulders is bound,
" Stor'd with Darts, that alike Friends and Enemies wound:
" Ev'n I, his own Mother, in vain strive to shun
" His Arrows — so fell and so cruel my Son.
" His Torch is but small, yet so ardent its Ray,
" It scorches the Sun, and extinguishes Day.
" O you, who perchance may the Fugitive find,
" Secure first his Hands, and with Manacles bind;
" Show the Rogue no Compassion, though oft he appears
" To weep — his are all hypocritical Tears.
" With Caution conduct him, nor let him beguile
" Your vigilant Care with a treacherous Smile.
" Perhaps with a Laugh Kisses sweet he will proffer;
" His Kisses are Poison, ah! shun the vile Offer.
" Perhaps he'll say, sobbing: " No Mischief I know;
" Here take all my Arrows, my Darts and my Bow! "
" Ah! beware, touch them not — deceitful his Aim;
" His Darts and his Arrows are all tipt with Flame."