His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid aside, <br />A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied, <br />Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent, <br />To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went; <br />Like any ploughman toil'd the little god, <br />His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd; <br />Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above <br />Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove: <br />Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain, <br />And as I bid you let it shine or rain, <br />Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow, <br />Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough; <br />What once Europa was Nannette is now.<br /><br />Matthew Prior<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cupid-turned-ploughman-from-moschus/
