Роберт Грин (Robert Greene)

* * *

CUPID abroad was lated in the night,
    His wings were wet with ranging in the rain; 
Harbor he sought, to me he took his flight
    To dry his plumes. I heard the boy complain: 
          I oped the door and granted his desire, 
          I rose myself, and made the wag a fire.

Looking more narrow by the fire's flame,
    I spied his quiver hanging by his back. 
Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame,
    I would have gone, for fear of further wrack; 
          But what I drad did me, poor wretch, betide, 
          For forth he drew an arrow from his side.

He pierced the quick, and I began to start,
    A pleasing wound but that it was too high; 
His shaft procured a sharp yet sugared smart.
    Away he flew, for why is wings were dry; 
          But left the arrow sticking in my breast, 
          That sore I grieved I welcomed such a guest. 

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