Beauties, Have Ye Seen This Toy, Called Love, A Little Boy Almost Naked, Wanton, Blind, Cruel Now, And Then As Kind? If He Be Amongst Ye, Say! He Is Venus' Runaway. He Hath Of Marks About Him Plenty; Ye Shall Know Him Among Twenty; All His Body Is A Fire, And His Breath A Flame Entire, That, Being Shot Like Lightning In, Wounds The Heart, But Not The Skin. He Doth Bear A Golden Bow, And A Quiver, Hanging Low, Full Of Arrows, That Outbrave Dian'S Shafts, Where, If He Have Any Head More Sharp Than Other, With That First He Strikes His Mother. Trust Him Not: His Words, Though Sweet, Seldom With His Heart Do Meet; All His Practice Is Deceit, Every Gift Is But A Bait; Not A Kiss But Poison Bears, And Most Treason In His Tears. If By These Ye Please To Know Him, Beauties, Be Not Nice, But Show Him, Though Ye Had A Will To Hide Him. Now, We Hope, Ye'll Not Abide Him, Since Ye Hear His Falser Play, And That He's Venus' Runaway.