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But turns his cold bum to my belly,
and there he lies snoring all night,
He surely loves some other madam,
or else I would have more delight.
I am kiss'd only twice in the week,
and that’s a poor pitiful thing:
And oh! to be married again,
for I love all things in the spring.
THE THIRSTY LOVER.
Drink to me only with thine,
and I'll pledge thee with mine,
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
and I'll not look for wine.
The thirst which in my soul doth rise,
does ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s Nectar sip,
I wou’d not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
not so much honouring thee;
And giving it a hope that there,
it could not wither’d be.
But thou therein did only breathe,
and sent it back to me;
Since when, it looks and smells, I swear,
not of itself but thee.
Printed by J. & M. Robertson, Saltmarket, 1802.
