Robert Heath

I’l have a young plump amorous Queen, Ripe though she be not yet fifteen. ’Twixt whose close arms and snowie breast I may diffuse my heat, and rest.

Hark how the Lyrick Choristers o’ th’ wood Warble their cheerful notes! which understood Would make us think they woo’d and spake In pure Tibullus phrase, when he did take His Lesbia to him!

Here the Currans red and white In yon green bush at her sight Peep through their shady leaves, and cry "Come eat me", as she passes by.

Her steps with such an evenness she wove, As shee could hardly be perceiv’d to move.