Stay, Cupid, whither art thou flying?
Pity the pale lovers dying:
They that honour'd thee before,
Will no more
At thy altar pay their vows.
Oh let the weeping virgins strow,
Instead of rose and myrtle boughs,
Sad yew, and funeral cypress now!
Unkind Cupid, leave thy killing;
These are all thy mother's doves;
Oh do not wound such noble loves,
And make them bleed, that should be billing!
-- James Shirley
From Cupid and Death