I never left off kissing her, I well think,
But wrapped in rich red raiment of her hair,
Kissed her all day, till her lips parch’d for drink
As the parch’d often lips of a flute-player.
No maid of a king’s blood, but held right high
In God’s sharp sight, from whom no things are hid.
“You must not tell,” she sighed and turned to cry.
“That I should tell your mother, God forbid!”
Said so I kept my word, I never told her
You drink pure water? I, sir, I drink wine!