 | Pastorals |  |
Cubbin was griev'd, ye can't think how,
To see her soil her Beauty so.
Her Beauty fresh gan Bloom, and 'ope
Its bashful Bosom to th' Dew-drop.
Her pretty Paps, like clustring Grapes,
A-thro' her Vest soft show'd their Shapes.
To see her soil her Beauty so.
Her Beauty fresh gan Bloom, and 'ope
Its bashful Bosom to th' Dew-drop.
52
A-thro' her Vest soft show'd their Shapes.
| Pastorals | |