1 BY the side of the stream that strays thro' the grove,
2 I met, in a ramble, the blithe God of Love;
3 His bow o'er his shoulder was carelessly ty'd,
4 His quiver in negligence clanck'd at his side;
5 A handful of arrows he held to my view,
6 Each wing'd with a feather of different hue.
7 "This, fledg'd from the eagle, he smiling begun,
8 " I aim at the heart that no dangers will shun;
9 "And this from the peacock, all gaudy array'd,
10 " The breast of Sir Fopling is sure to invade.
11 "When I aim at the prattler, who talks void of wit,
12 " My shaft in the plume of a parrot will hit;
13 "And when I've a mind that the jealous should smart,
14 " I pierce with an owl-feather'd arrow his heart.
15 "For the youth, in whom truth and fondness reside,
16 " From the breast of a dove my dart is supply'd:
17 "This I value the most: — 'twas this that I found
18 " From you, O my Delia, that gave me the wound. "