Or if warm, my raptured tear,
Shall extinguish all its blushes.
Yes, that dimple is a valley,
Where sports many a little true love,
And that glance you dart, my Sally,
Might melt diamonds into dew love.
But while idle thus I chat,
I the war of lips am missing.
This, this, this, and that, that, that,
These make kissing, kissing, kissing.