To bloom beneath that comely nose;
Or, you the flower, and I the bee,
My sweets I'd sip from none but thee.
Was I a pen, you paper white,
Ye gods, what billet-doux I'd write!
My lips the seal, what am'rous smacks
I'd print on yours, if sealing-wax.
No more I'll say, you stop my breath,
My only life, you'll be my death.
[Rises.