The Vine

I dreamed this mortal part of mine

                        Was metamorphosed to a vine,

                    Which, crawling one and every way,

                        Enthralled my dainty Lucia.

                Methought, her long small legs and thighs

                      I with my tendrils did surprise:

                    Her belley, buttocks, and her waist

                    By my soft nervelets were embraced

                      About her head I writhing hung

                    And with rich clusters (hid Amoung

                    The leaves) her temples i behung,

                      So that my Lucia seemed to me

                    Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.

                    My curls about her neck did crawl,

                  And arms and hands they did enthrall,

                    So that she could not freely stir

                  ( All parts there made one prisoner).

                  But when I crept with leaves to hide

                  Those parts which maids keep unespied,

                    Such fleeting pleasures there I took

                        That with the fancy i awoke,

                  And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine

                    More like a stock than like a vine.