Şiir 4
But if she's heavy, I suppose at night
She'll change, and prove, as I would have her, light,
The fair that sings, enchants me with her voice;
Oh, what a gust it gives a lover's joys!
When her shrill shakes afresh his bosom wound,
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And from her lips he kisses off the sound;
When her soft fingers touch the silver strings,
And sweetly to the sounding lute she sings;
Who can resist such strong redoubled charms?
Her music melts me, as her beauty warms
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If in the dance the nimble nymph I find,
And view how she her pliant limbs does wind,
How artfully she to the music moves,
I cry, "How happy is the man she loves!"
My humour, in a word, is plainly this,
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All objects please, and nothing comes amiss.
To love, and be belov'd my sole employ:
Dispos'd to be enjoy'd, and to enjoy.
This lady for her length I like, her spread
Will swell my arms, and fill the joyous bed;
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