With her pretty persecution;
Throw the tongs against my shins,
Run me through and through with pins,
Like a piercèd cushion;
Would she only say she'd love me,
Darning-needles should not move me;
But, reclining back I'd say,
"Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray;
Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine!
Cork me, cousin Caroline!"