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My lifted eye-brow shall declare my pain,
My right hand to his fellow shall complain;
And on the back a letter shall design,
Beside a note that shall be writ in wine.
Whene'er you think upon our last embrace,
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With your fore-finger gently touch your face.
If any word of mine offend my dear,
Pull with your hand the velvet of your ear;
If you are pleas'd with what I do or say,
Handle your rings, or vith your fingers play.
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As suppliants use at altars, hold the board,
Whene'er you wish the devil may take your lord.
When he fills for you, never touch the cup,
But bid th' officious cuckold drink it up:
The waiter on those services employ;
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Drink you, and I will snatch it from the boy,
Watching the part where your sweet mouth hath been,
And thence, with eager lips, will suck it in.
If he, with clownish manners, thinks it fit
To taste, and offer you the nasty bit,
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