A Prayer to Cupid

Cupid who didst ne're see light,

nor know'st the pleasure of the sight,

but ever blinded canst not say,

now it is night, or now tis day:

so captivate her sence, so blind her eye,

that still she love me, though she know not why.

Thou that woundest with such art,

We see no bloud drop from the heart,

And subtly cruell leav'st no signe

To tell the blow, or hand was thine:

O gently, gently wound my favre, that she

May hence beleeve the wound did come from thee.