Her Merriment

When I had met my love the twentieth time,

She put me to confession day and night:

Did I like woman far above all things,

Or did the songs I make give more delight?

“Listen, you sweeter flower than ever smiled

In April’s sunny face,” I said at last-

“The voices and the legs of birds and women

Have always pleased my eyes the most.”

And saying this, I watched my love with care,

Not knowing if my words offend or please:

But laughing gaily, her delighted breasts

Sent ripples down her body to her knees.