His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid aside, br A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied, br Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent, br To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went; br Like any ploughman toil'd the little god, br His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd; br Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above br Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove: br Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain, br And as I bid you let it shine or rain, br Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow, br Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough; br What once Europa was Nannette is now.