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Updated: October 29, 2026
She kisses as sheed wont; were she unchast, Surely her breath would like a Stigian mist Or some contagious vapor blast me; but 'Tis sweet as Indian balme, and from her lips Distills a moisture pretious as the Dew The amorous bounty of the wholesome morne Throwes on rose buds; her cheeks are fresh and pure As the chast ayre that circumscribes them, yet Theres that within her renders her as foule As the deformed'st Ethiope.