I gently touched her hand: she gave A look that did my soul enslave; I pressed her rebel lips in vain: They rose up to be pressed again. Thus happy, I no farther meant, Than to be pleased and innocent. On her soft breasts my hand I laid, And a quick, light impression made; They with a kindly warmth did glow, And swelled, and seemed to over-flow. Yet, trust me, I no farther meant, Than to be pleased and innocent. On her eyes my eyes did stay: O'er her smooth limbs my hands did stray; Each sense was ravished with delight, And my soul stood prepared for flight. Blame me not if at last I meant More to be pleased than innocent. |