By all love’s soft yet mighty powers, | |
It is a thing unfit | |
That men should fuck in time of flowers | |
Or when the smock’s beshit. | |
| 5 | Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind |
And all my joys restore | |
By using paper still behind | |
And sponges for before. | |
| 10 | If after every close |
My smoking prick escape the fray | |
Without a bloody nose. | |
If thou wouldst have me true, be wise | |
And take to cleanly sinning; | |
| 15 | None but fresh lovers’ pricks can rise |
At Phillis in foul linen. |