Not to thy feverish resolve inclin'd
Nor solvent breath in hearts solemnly ply'd.
Flesh- Will, as water thru mill never twain,
For thee dark flower, reserv'd a blacker name.
Alas thy essence confin'd doth confound-
What damns for desires in itself found proud?
No villain more intent than lusty lip-
When for silk, station or estate it doth drip.
No devil perforce virtues good cup drains
Quick as powder'd cheek and bound corsets pain.
O, illicit love from so infirm a shell!
Peddling for Bacchus, to Venus dos't Bow!
Tho' if lyrics fail me, boot heels will not-
I'll retire this field, the Knocks are too hot!
-A bow and flourish to the Bard.