And call that lawful whatsoe'er do's please.
Nor will my Crime want Instances alone,
'Tis what the Glorious Gods above have done;
For _Saturn_, and his greater Off-spring _Jove_,
Both stock'd their Heaven with Incestuous Love.


_The Fourteenth Plague._

If any Man do's with my Bubbies play,
Squeeze my small Hand, as soft as Wax or Clay,
Or lays his Hands upon my tender Knees,
What strange tumultuous Joys upon me seize!
My Breasts do heave, and languish do my Eyes,
Panting's my Heart, and trembling are my Thighs;
I sigh, I wish, I pray, and seem to die,
In one continu'd Fit of Ecstacy;
Thus by my Looks may Man know what I mean,
And how he easily may get between
Those Quarters, where he may surprize a Fort,
In which an Emperor may find such Sport,
That with a mighty Gust of Love's Alarms,
He'd lie dissolving in my circling Arms;
But 'tis my Fate to have to do with Fools,
Who're very loth and shy to use their Tools,
To ease a poor, and fond distressed Maid,
Of that same Load, of which I'm not afrad
To lose with any Man, tho' I should die,
For any Tooth (good Barber) is my Cry.