Golden, firm, and delicate breast
Of my lover which adorns her chest.
To place my face upon and rest,
Embrace: two in one lover’s nest.

These are not the gifts of a mother.
Not touched, or mouthed for white milk,
Nor to suckle and feed any brother,
Within the mouth that’s like wet silk.

No, these are the touches and kisses of romance,
Who adore right now the curves of mountainous France.
By adore I mean devour
And drink this nectar that does not sour.
No milk so sweet as her love that be:
When she: looking down; belongs to me.

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