What cunning craftsman coin'd the thread
Of gold her hair so fair and fine?
What gardener laid her bosom-bed
Where long her lily arms entwine?
What dyer such rich red has wrung
For crimson of her lips and cheeks?
What master has so tuned her tongue
To make such music when she speaks?
What alchemist has blown her breast
To such a white quick leap of fire,
That when I lay me there to rest
I'm all consumed with desire?
