I Lydia, Lovely Maid, more fair Than Milk or whitest Lilies are, Than Polisht Indian Iv’ry shows, Or the fair unblushing Rose. II 5 Open, Maid, thy Locks, that hold Wealth more bright than shining Gold, Over thy white shoulders laid, Spread thy Locks, my Charming Maid. III Lydia, ope’ thy starry Eyes, 10 Shew the Beds where Cupid lies, Open, Maid, thy Rosie-Cheeks, Red as Sun declining streaks. IV Shew thy Coral Lips, my Love, Kiss me softer than the Dove, 15 Till my Ravisht Soul does lie Panting in an Ecstasie. V Oh hold—and do not pierce my Heart, Which beats, as life wou’d thence depart, Hide thy Breasts that swell and rise, 20 Hide ’em from my wishing Eyes. <target id="page_101" target-type="page">101</target>VI Shut thy Bosome, white as Snow, Whence Arabian perfumes flow; Hide it from my Raptur’d Touch, I have gaz’d—and kist too much. VII 25 Cruel Maid—on Malice bent, Seest thou not my Languishment? Lydia!—Oh I faint!—I die! With thy Beauties Luxury.