List to me, ye gentle fair:
Cupid oft in ambush lies,
Of the urchin have a care,
Lest he take you by surprise.

He with trifles will inflame 
The hearts of us poor silly maids,
And oft-times he takes his aim
From shoulder knots and smart cockades.

Oft his darts the heart assail
From a pair of brilliant eyes;
Never were they known to fail,
Wet with tears or borne on sighs.

Beauteous too he seems to be,
Sweet as roses in the morn;
But beneath these beauties he,
Like the rose, conceals a thorn.

List to me, ye gentle fair:
Cupid oft in ambush lies,
Of the urchin have a care,
Lest he take you by surprise.