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Matthew Prior - Cupid And Ganymede
Work rating: Low

In Heav`n, one Holy-day, You read
In wise Anacreon, Ganymede 
Drew heedless Cupid in, to throw
A Main, to pass an Hour, or so.
The little Trojan, by the way,
By Hermes taught, play`d All the Play.

The God unhappily engag`d,
By Nature rash, by Play enrag`d,
Complain`d, and sigh`d, and cry`d, and fretted;
Lost ev`ry earthly thing He betted:
In ready Mony, all the Store
Pick`d up long since from Danae`s Show`r;
A Snush-Box, set with bleeding Hearts,
Rubies, all pierc`d with Diamond Darts;
His Nine-pins, made of Myrtle Wood;
(The Tree in Ida`s Forest stood)
His Bowl pure Gold, the very same
Which Paris gave the Cyprian Dame;
Two Table-Books in Shagreen Covers;
Fill`d with good Verse from real Lovers;
Merchandise rare! A Billet-doux,
It`s Matter passionate, yet true:
Heaps of Hair Rings, and cypher`d Seals;
Rich Trifles; serious Bagatelles.

What sad Disorders Play begets!
Desp`rate and mad, at length He sets
Those Darts, whose Points make Gods adore
His Might, and deprecate his Pow`r:
Those Darts, whence all our Joy and Pain
Arise: those Darts—come, Seven`s the Main,
Cries Ganymede: The usual Trick:
Seven, slur a Six; Eleven: A Nick.

Ill News goes fast: `Twas quickly known,
That simple Cupid was undone.
Swifter than Lightning Venus flew:
Too late She found the thing too true.
Guess how the Goddess greets her Son:
Come hither, Sirrah; no, begon;
And, hark Ye, is it so indeed?
A Comrade You for Ganymede?
An Imp as wicked, for his Age,
As any earthly Lady`s Page;
A Scandal and a Scourge to Troy:
A Prince`s Son? A Black-guard Boy:
A Sharper, that with Box and Dice
Draws in young Deities to Vice.
All Heav`n is by the Ears together,
Since first That little Rogue came hither:
Juno her self has had no Peace:
And truly I`ve been favour`d less:
For Jove, as Fame reports, (but Fame 
Says things not fit for Me to name)
Has acted ill for such a God,
And taken Ways extreamly odd.

And Thou, unhappy Child, She said
(Her Anger by her Grief allay`d)
Unhappy Child, who thus hast lost
All the Estate We e`er could boast;
Whither, O whither wilt Thou run,
Thy Name despis`d, thy Weakness known?
Nor shall thy Shrine on Earth be crown`d:
Nor shall thy Pow`r in Heav`n be own`d;
When Thou, nor Man, nor God can`st wound.

Obedient Cupid kneeling cry`d,
Cease, dearest Mother, cease to chide:
Gany`s a Cheat, and I`m a Bubble:
Yet why this great Excess of Trouble?
The Dice were false: the Darts are gone:
Yet how are You, or I undone?

The Loss of These I can supply
With keener Shafts from Cloe`s Eye:
Fear not, We e`er can be disgrac`d,
While That bright Magazine shall last:
Your crowded Altars still shall smoke;
And Man your Friendly Aid invoke:
Jove shall again revere your Pow`r,
And rise a Swan, or fall a Show`r.
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