92 Poem by Mary Wroth

Sweet Siluia in a shady wood,
With her faire Nimphs layd downe,
Saw not farre off where Cupid stood,
The Monarch of Loves Crowne,
All naked, playing with his wings,
Within a Mirtle Tree,
Which sight a sudden laughter brings,
His Godhead so to see.

And fondly they began to jest,
With scoffing, and delight,
Not knowing he did breed unrest,
And that his will's his right:
When he perseiving of their scorne,
Grew in such desperate rage,
Who but for honour first was borne,
Could not his rage asswage.

Till shooting of his murth'ring dart,
Which not long lighting was
Knowing the next way to the heart,
Did through a poore Nymph passe:
This shot the others made to bow,
Besides all those to blame,
Who scorners be, or not allow
Of powerfull Cupids name.

Take heede then nor doe idly smile,
Nor Loves commands despise,
For soone will he your strength beguile,
Although he want his eyes.