A poem by Thomas Gent

Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er
We call that elf, seen every where,
Half frolicsome, half ennuyeuse,
Had chanced a country walk to choose;
When sudden, sweet and bright as May,
Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.--

"Upon my word," exclaims the boy,
"A lucky hit! this pretty toy
To pass an hour, with vapours haunted,
Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted;
I do not so far condescend
As serious mischief to intend,
But just to show my powers of pleasing
In flattery, badinage, and teasing;
But should she, for young girls, poor things!
Are tender as yon insect's wings--
Should she mistake me, and grow fond,
Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond."

First, not abruptly to confound her,
With glance and smile he hovers round her:
Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau,
Begins to press her gentle elbow;
Then plays at once, familiar walking,
His whole artillery of talking:--
Like a young fawn the blushing maid
Trips on, half pleased and half afraid--
And while she palpitates and listens,
Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens,
He shows her all his pretty things,
His bow and quiver, dart, and wings;
Now, proud in power, he sees her eyes
Dilate with beautiful surprise;
But most, though fraught with perturbation.
His weapons claim her admiration,
And with an archness most bewitching
(Her naive simplicity enriching),
She wonders where a maid might buy than,
And begs to be allow'd to try them.

With secret scorn, but smiling bland,
He yields them to her curious hand,
When, instant, twang! the arrow flew,
So just her aim, it pierced him through,
Right through his heart, the luckless lad!
(A heart, to do him right, he had);
All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish,
Through many an hour to pine and languish,
And what made all his pangs more bitter,
Off flew the damsel in a titter.
Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree,
Cries out, "you've always laughed at me--
Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir!
'Tis not so safe to laugh at her."

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