From Cupid’s bow there flies a dart,
And where it lands shall romance start:
Eternal lovers, strong and true,
Or passion’s pawns, thrust deep into
The storm tossed sea without a chart.
Yet paramours are seldom smart;
They drive the horse behind the cart
And later curse each shaft that flew
From Cupid’s bow.
Love is not science, but an art;
Not every hind will find her hart.
The arrows miss, or strike askew,
And when they fail it falls to you
To seek out other ways apart
From Cupid’s bow.