 | Original Poems |  |
22
The FEATHER.
In
Florimel's Arms, and almost out of Breath,
I'll kiss Thee, my Charmer! I'll kiss Thee to Death!
Cry'd Thyrsis, in Raptures,—but soon on her Breast
He sunk down his Head, and compos'd him to rest.
I'll kiss Thee, my Charmer! I'll kiss Thee to Death!
Cry'd Thyrsis, in Raptures,—but soon on her Breast
He sunk down his Head, and compos'd him to rest.
Not long had They lain thus unactive together,
Ere the Wanton pluck'd out from the Bolster a Feather;
And grasping Him close, till he open'd his Eyes,
In a Tone of Derision, the Witty One crys,
To prevent being kill'd in the Manner you said,
I design, with this Feather, to chop off your Head.
Ere the Wanton pluck'd out from the Bolster a Feather;
And grasping Him close, till he open'd his Eyes,
In a Tone of Derision, the Witty One crys,
To prevent being kill'd in the Manner you said,
I design, with this Feather, to chop off your Head.
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