That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp,
She pants upon the pa**ionate lips that ache
With the red drain of her own mouth, and make
A monochord of colour. Like an asp,
One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp.
Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake
Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake.
The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp.
The legs are absolutely abominable.
Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes
Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose?
Nay! d**h sets riddles for desire to spell,
Responsive. What red hem earth's pa**ion sews,
But may be ravenously untripped in hell?