A Tale out of Anacreon

At dead low ebb of night, when none

But Great Charles' Wain was driven on,

When mortals strict cessation keep,

To re-recruit themselves with sleep.

'Twas then a boy knocked at my gate.

Who's there, said I, that calls so late?

O let me in! he soon replied,

I am a child, and then he cried,

I wander without guide or light,

Lost in this wet, blind, moonless night.

In pity then I rose, and straight

Unbarred my door, and sprang a light:

Behold, it was a lovely boy,

A sweeter sight ne'er blessed mine eye:

I view'd him round, and saw strange things,

A bow, a quiver, and two wings:

I led him to the fire, and then

I dried and chaf'd his hands with mine:

I gently press'd his tresses, curls,

Which new-fall'n rain had hung with pearls:

At last when warm'd, the yonker said,

Alas, my bow! I am afraid

The string is wet: pray (Sir) let's try,

Let's try my bow. Do, do said I.

He bent it, shot, so quick and smart,

As through my liver reach'd my heart.

Then in a trice he took his flight,

And laughing said, My bow is right,

It is. O 'tis! for as he spoke,

'Twas not his bow, but my heart is broke.