Cupid, I Hate Thee, Which I'd Have Thee Know; A Naked Starveling Ever Mayst Thou Be! Poor Rogue, Go Pawn Thy Fascia And Thy Bow For Some Poor Rags Wherewith To Cover Thee; Or If Thou'Lt Not Thy Archery Forbear, To Some Base Rustic Do Thyself Prefer, And When Corn'S Sown Or Grown Into The Ear, Practice Thy Quiver And Turn Crowkeeper; Or Being Blind, As Fittest For The Trade, Go Hire Thyself Some Bungling Harper'S Boy; They That Are Blind Are Minstrels Often Made, So Mayst Thou Live To Thy Fair Mother'S Joy; That Whilst With Mars She Holdeth Her Old Way, Thou, Her Blind Son, Mayst Sit By Them And Play.