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Talk not of honour, lay that toy aside,
In men 'tis folly, and in women pride;
There without blushes you may naked lie,
Clasping his body with your tender thigh;
Shoot your moist dart into his mouth, to show
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The sense you have of what he acts below;
Try all the ways, your pliant bodies twine,
In folds more strange than those of Aretine:
With melting looks fierce joys you may excite,
And with thick dying accents urge delight.
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But when you're dress'd, then look as innocent
As if you knew not what such matters meant;
Cozen the prying town, and put a cheat
On it and me, I'll favour the deceit.
False as thou art, why must I daily see
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Th' intriguing billet-doux he sends to thee ?
The wanton sonnet, or soft elegy ?
Why does your bed all tumbled seem to say,
See what they've done, see where the lovers lay!
Why do your locks and rumpled head-clothes show
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