The stripling heats his golden arrow's head At her bright eyes, then slacks the weapon's glow In streams, which falls between white flowers and red;
And, the shaft tempered, strongly draws his bow, And roves at him, o'er whom no shield is spread, Nor iron rind, nor double mail below;
Who, gazing on her tresses, eyes, and brow, Feels that his heart is pierced, he knows not how.
