Thy Arms, thy Hands, thy Waste, thy Hips most neat:
Thy Bliss! — thy Thighs, thy Legs, thy nimble Feet!
I say, when in this Paradice I gaze,
Your Locks intangle me within a Maze;
When striving to resist, your Brows do frown,
Whilst your bright Eyes do gently knock me down;
At which, Compassion in your Cheeks, discovers,
Your Lips sweet Cordials are for fainting Lovers;
Then, gath'ring strength, about your Neck I'll fall,
And pull thee down t'revenge my self for all:
But if your Iv'ry Sholders won't comply,
I'll sink for shame into the Flames hard by;
Where, Dying, I will Live, till thence displac't,
I must remove to 'twine thy slender Waste;
But if no Durance there, I will retreat
To try each beauteous Part from Head to Feet;
No Eddy, Current, Channel, I will miss,
Until I Anchor in thy Port of Bliss!
—Just as I'ad done, my Soul was strucken mute
With th'unexpected playing on a Flute;
Whereat, I stoo'd stock still, and gazing round,
Listned withal, to hear from whence the sound
Deriv'd; when instantly on t'other side
The Bank, (within a Thicket, which could hide
Some Numbers there) I saw my Rival Duke
Sit Melancholly playing on his Flute:
Desirous to know th'Intriegue, I lay
Perdue i'th' Hedge, to hear what he would say,
When ceasing playing on his Flute, he cry'd,
Heavens! I sha'nt injoy fair Almahide!
Ponce de Leon, to Increase my smart,
Has got Possession in her tender Heart!—
—And then he fetcht a Sigh; and thus did say,
O wretched, wretched Duke 'f Infantada!