And see how closely above them hover the winged
loves! One, upside down in the air, sprinkles them with rose-leaves;
another waves over them a blazing torch; another tries to frighten
them with his unarrowed bow. Another yet has dared to descend into the
group; he nestles his fat cheek on a lady's lap, and is not rebuked.
These little chubby Cythareans know they are privileged to play any
pranks here. Doubtless they love to be on duty in this garden, for
here they are patted and petted, and have no real work to do. At close
of day, when they fly back to their mother, there is never an unmated
name in the report they bring her; and she, belike, being pleased with
them, allows them to sit up late, and to have each a slice of ambrosia
and a sip of nectar. But elsewhere they have hard work, and often fly
back in dread of Venus' anger. At that other balustrade, where
Watteau, remembering this one, painted for us the `Plaisirs du Bal,'
how often they have lain in ambush, knowing that were one of them to
show but the tip of his wings those sedate and migniard masqueraders
would faint for very shame; yet ever hoping that they might, by their
unseen presence, turn that punctilio of flirtation into love. And
always they have flown back from Dulwich unrequited for all the pains
they had taken, and pouting that Venus should ever send them on so
hard an errand.
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