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