Cupid Turned Ploughman. - From Moschus

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