Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,

Or tell the tale of Theban arms;

With other wars my song shall burn,

For other wounds my harp shall mourn.

'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,

That drank the current of my heart;

Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,

Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;

No—'twas from eyes of liquid blue,

A host of quivered Cupids flew;[1]

And now my heart all bleeding lies

Beneath that army of the eyes!

[1] The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistress un petit camp d'amours.