Classic Poem

Th' Idalian Boy his Arrow to the Head
( Neæra ) drew, ready to strike thee dead;
But when thy Brow, and on thy Brow thy Hair,
Thy Eyes quick restless Light; thy Cheeks more fair,
Breasts whiter then his Mothers he did view,
Away his wavering Hand the slack Shaft threw:
Then to thy Arms with childish Joy he skips,
Printing a thousand Kisses on thy Lips;
Which Cyprian Spirits, and the Mirtles Juice
Into thy Bosome gently did infuse;
And by the Gods, and his fair Mother swore,
He never would attempt to hurt thee more.
Wonder We then thy Kisses are so sweet?
Or why no Love thy cold Brest will admit?