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Michael Drayton - Sonnet XLVIII: Cupid, I Hate Thee
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Cupid, I hate thee, which I`d have thee know; 
A naked starveling ever may`st thou be. 
Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow 
For some few rags wherewith to cover thee. 
Or, if thou`lt not, thy archery forbear, 
To some base rustic do thyself prefer, 
And when corn`s sown or grown into the ear, 
Practise thy quiver and turn crow-keeper.
Or, being blind, as fittest for the trade, 
Go hire thyself some bungling harper`s boy; 
They that are blind are often minstrels made; 
So may`st thou live, to thy fair mother`s joy, 
That whilst with Mars she holdeth her old way, 
Thou, her blind son, may`st sit by them and play.
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