O dearest one, my tongue doth press to praise,
Thy secret centre’s pink and pearll-like gem,
When worshipfully thou thy skirts upraise,
That I might worship all beneath thy hem;
O sacred quim, O fount of venus’ joy,
Couch’d in fringed ginger ’fore mine eyes,
Thy sweetly flowing nectar to my tongue
Doth give delight as child with wondrous toy,
In sacred pleasure doth my soul uprise,
When all delight of thee be gladly sung.
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