An Ode to Love

Dull Love no more thy senseless arrows prize,
Damn thy gay quiver, break thy bow;
'Tis only young Lysanders eyes,
That all the arts of wounding know.

A pox of foolish politics in love,
A wise delay in war the foe may harm:
By lazy siege while you to conquest move;
His fiercer beauties vanquish by a storm.

Some wounded god, to be revenged on thee,
The charming youth formed in a lucky hour,
Dressed him in all that fond divinity,
That has out-rivalled thee, a god, in power.

Or else while thou supinely laid 
Basking beneath some myrtle shade,
In careless sleep, or tired with play,
When all thy shafts did scattered lie;
Th'unguarded spoils he bore away,
And armed himself with the artillery.

The sweetness from thy eyes he took,
The charming dimples from thy mouth,
That wonderous softness when you spoke;
And all thy everlasting youth.

Thy bow, thy quiver, and thy darts:
Even of thy painted wing has rifled thee,
To bear him from his conquered broken hearts,
To the next fair and yielding she.