"Come, Master Plutus," Cupid cried, "Oblige me, will you, with some cash? I mean to travel far and wide, And feel inclined to cut a dash.
"For though I'm very kindly greeted By most warm souls that dwell below; I find that I am always treated Much better when I've gold to show.
"I cannot guess what charm can be About this stupid pelf of yours; For really, it appears to me To cause more trouble than it cures.
"Yet those poor mortals who would falter, If I held fadeless chaplets o'er them, Will boldly march to Hymen's altar When I fling rent-rolls down before them.
"But come, I'm just about to wander As a right noble gentleman; Lend me a handsome sum to squander: Mamma will pay you—when she can."
Plutus look'd somewhat grave and grim, To hear his hoards call'd "stupid pelf;" But knowing Love would have his whim, He told the boy to help himself.
The guineas made a merry chink, And soon Love piled a goodly lot; But suddenly began to think How he could carry what he'd got.
His shining bow must be resign'd; His arrows—famed as those of Tell;— His roses—must be left behind, And, oh, his sweet pet doves as well.
He laid them down, and belted fast Cash-books and bags, a precious bevy; But mutter'd something o'er the last About their being "monstrous heavy."
However, off the stripling went, Again his well known tales were told; And many a listening ear was bent, And many a hand received his gold,
Alas alas they failed to note That he had not one magic shaft ; That all the "billets-doux" he wrote Were pencill'd on a banker's draft.
They did not heed his missing bow, They asked not for his absent birds; He offered riches—whisper'd low, And they believed his cheating words.
Full soon they murmur'd, sigh'd and sorrow'd; The rogue had gone, and bliss had flown; True, he had left them all he borrow'd, But not one relic of his own.
Full many a spirit proved too late That homes in gold-mines may be lonely; And cursed the hour and mourn'd the fate That gave them wealth, but gave wealth only.
For though great gain is well enough To feed our hope and crown our pride; Yet who would choose the shining stuff Without a tithe of love beside?
This villain trick is known to be Too often played among us here; So mind, good people, when you see The bowless, blind boy coming near.
The imp may seem a spendthrift giver Of all that dazzles eyes and hearts; But trust not to a gleaming quiver That's fill'd with coins, instead of darts.
Be sure he has his birds and flowers, And dons no masquerading trim; And when he talks of "deeds and dowers," Just ask if they belong to him.
